


Kiramir

by SandShadow



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Tenth Walker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 109,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandShadow/pseuds/SandShadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf convinces a former Haradrim assassin to join the Fellowship, but the path of blood and gold calls to her again in the form of the Ring. Will an elf prince help her find the strength to defeat her nature, or will she fall, as so many have? Legolas/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Draw Back The Veil

October in the wilds of Eriador put a chill in her skin, but it was easy to ignore. She had walked this land before, and many lands harsher than the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Compared to the blazing heat of Far Harad, or the steppes of the Easterling kingdom, the stirring wind was refreshing. And the rain was gone; she had to give thanks for that. Now the clouds parted to reveal blue skies and the sun, painting the valley in the fire of autumn.

_Rivendell_ , she thought to herself, as the Last Homely House came into view around the craggy cliffs. Waterfalls raced down the stone, disappearing into clouds of mist, making the whole world seem like a dream. But the reason for her coming, the dark shadow that had settled over the lands of Middle-Earth, weighed heavy in her mind. _Not a dream,_ she knew, _but perhaps a nightmare._

Her horse knew the way, though it had never been here before. Something about the elves bewitched the animal, guiding it over the rocks to the carved stone bridge spanning the river. Even from so far away, with the water roaring beneath, she could hear the sounds of more horses in the courtyard. _Of course others would come. This concerns us all._ The Men of Gondor, Rohan, elves from both sides of the mountains, and even the dwarves would send envoys to Elrond's house. _It has been found._

Gandalf warned her when he lasted visited the realm of Gondor, though she never entered the gates of Minas Tirith. Her kind was not welcome inside the walls and though she could have disguised herself if she wished, the prospect of Gondorian dress and mannerism made her shiver. So Gandalf tracked her to Pelargir, the port city at the mouth of the Great River, where she often resided between contracts. _When the darkness spreads, when the shadows fall, ride to Rivendell,_ the wizard said. She tried to ask what he meant, but the old man spoke in riddles, as usual. Only when she felt the black power of Mordor creeping, reaching out with dark fingers from the East and the South, did she understand. Her horse, a sturdy creature of the desert tribes, rivaled the steeds of Rohan in stamina, and the journey passed by swiftly. Goblins shrieked from the mountains, orcs patrolled the hollows and smoke rose from Isengard, but she pressed on with quiet speed. She was a Hasharin of the Haradrim, an assassin born and bred, and her blades were always sharp.

"Was," she breathed to herself, a reminder as the horse crossed the bridge. _Those days are gone._ A life of murder and contracts and gold was far behind her now, left in the darkness of memory. She shed that life as a snake does its skin. She'd had her share of gold and blood and darkness; they could no longer tempt her.

_But the Ring._ She tried to ignore the thought, pressing it from her mind. Still, it whispered in her ears, a haunting ghost. _The Ring might tempt you still._

Inside the courtyard, elves glided to and fro, dismounting their white stallions while the servants of Elrond saw to their every need. _Wood elves_ , she thought to herself, noting the ash-blonde hair and their distinct bows. All were tall and light of foot, prancing around like deer through a meadow. Behind her veil, she wrinkled her nose. _A silly sort of people_. She remembered the Elvenking Thranduil, and his famed kingdom in the Greenwood. For elves, his people were especially strange, more concerned with feasts and celebrations and tricks in the green darkness. But for all their festivity, they were a cold people, and heartless in comparison to Elrond's kin. The elves of Rivendell were reserved, yes, but more inclined to offer aid when needed.

A dark-haired elf, a stablehand by the looks of him, took her horse by the reins. He glanced back, perplexed by the veiled human in brown and black leathers, but said nothing. She did her own glancing, sizing up the Last Homely House with sharp eyes.

The wood elves were not so polite and a few openly stared at the curved blade at her side. But their leader, a blonde man in gray, directed them away with a few words of Elvish. His blue eyes hesitated on her, but only for a split-second. That was all it took for him to know she was a woman, a strange one, and she did not belong.

The wizard stepped down from the house only when the courtyard cleared, leaving him alone with his guest. He smiled at her from beneath the brim of his hat, and smoked on his pipe errantly.

"The shadows have fallen, Gandalf," she said, bending her head in greeting. He nodded in return, eyes twinkling.

"You are in safe company now, Sakhra. And Lord Elrond does not take kindly to those who enter his house masked." He gestured to her veil, still fastened across her face so that only her eyes could be seen.

"As you wish," Sakhra huffed and pulled the veil away, revealing cat-like features beneath. Her skin was the color of sunset sand, like all the Haradrim before, but her usual war paint was gone. Only a few streaks of black outlined her eyes now. "Does Lord Elrond know of me?"

"He does, and he bids you welcome."

She sensed Gandalf's unease, for it was also her own. "And the others?"

"I'm certain the rest of the council will gladly receive all the help they can," he said, though he avoided her eyes. Even Gandalf knew ingratiating her to the rest of Elrond's guest would be a challenge. The Men of Harad were no friends to the West and though he trusted Sakhra beyond measure, others would not be so open-minded.

Sakhra did not become a killer of men by being blind, and she read the discomfort in him easily. Still, Gandalf was Gandalf, and arguing with him was a tedious, if not impossible, matter. She hooked her arm in his, allowing him to lead her wherever he may.

"I'll be certain to blame you when the Men of Gondor try to cut off my head," she muttered, smiling when the old wizard laughed aloud.

* * *

Not much frightened Sakhra, but the ringed circle of chairs, all of them occupied by the great peoples of the West, gave her pause. Gandalf didn't allow her to stop, almost pushing her along into the council circle. Several eyes found her, but the wood elves and the dwarves preoccupied most. Both races were obviously at odds, bickering so much that a pair of men from Rhovanion were forced to sit between them. Sakhra was glad for the distraction and took the first seat she could find, next to a gray-eyed man with a stern air. Gandalf quirked an eyebrow at her, offering her a reassuring smile, before taking his own seat next to the strangest thing of all: a Halfling.

Despite her fascination with the floppy-haired Halfling of the Shire, she couldn't help but notice the man next to her. For his part, he was trying not to stare, but his flickering glances could not be ignored.

"Forgive my appearance, I only arrived a few minutes ago," she said sharply, hoping to scare him off the subject. Instead, it only seemed to incite him.

"It is not your garb that interests me," he muttered back, turning to face her. Sakhra met his gaze with her usual steel, but unlike many, unlike _most_ , the man didn't even quiver. Instead, he looked at her longer, sizing up every inch in a single moment.

Her hair was dark and braided, pulled away from her face in the Haradrim style, though her clothing had the air of a southern ranger, if not the coloring. Leathers, worn boots spattered with mud, a hood with a peculiar veil. At first glance, she looked to be another walker like himself, but the tattoos on her hands and neck told a different story. Black as oil, snake-like, those were the marks of Harad. But she wore no bone jewelry of the mumak and her accent was slight, if indiscernible. She was long away from her homeland and this comforted him a bit. And because he was keen of eye, he noticed the way she leaned, overcompensating for a sword that was not there. _A woman on the council is strange, a Haradrim even stranger, but a warrior – impossible for some to bear,_ he understood. _Some_ meaning the Men of Gondor, his own kin, who had more cause than most to revile the Haradrim.

Sakhra shifted under his gaze, "I'm not suited to silk. And I don't think you are either." Like the man, she had done her own observing, and didn't miss the way his hand strayed to his silk collar or how he picked at his sleeves. The bruised fingers were hard to miss as well; he was a man more accustomed to the wilds. And his eyes, gray as stone, were grave and hard, the eyes of a king. _The rangers of the north are said to be descendants of the Dunedain, the blood of kings_ , she remembered, thinking back to her teachings in Umbar.

"I'm a friend of Gandalf's," she continued, hoping to ease him a bit. Fights and accusations were the last thing she needed now. "If that comforts you."

He leaned back in his seat, smirking slightly. "Gandalf has strange friends."

Sakhra scoffed, knowing that all too well. "The understatement of the age."

"Indeed he does."

Against her expectations, the man laughed with her and grinned. She smiled as well, half-relieved, half-amazed. Here she was, a former Hasharin, laughing with a Dunedain ranger. _Perhaps this council will bridge the gulf between us all, to save Middle-Earth,_ she hoped, glancing back at the elves and dwarves. Now separated, the races resigned themselves to glares and scowls rather than heated words.

Over the floor of the council chamber, one of the elves felt her gaze and looked up to meet her eyes. Sakhra recognized him as the elven leader from the courtyard, the one who turned his kinsmen away from her. She held his gaze, but he was more interested in the man next to her, gauging the ranger's reaction to the strange Haradrim woman. Something, perhaps the ranger's smile, made him relax back into his chair, though he still looked at her with confusion.

_A Haradrim woman_ , he thought, picking out the tell-tale details immediately. And though the ranger could not, the elf recognized the ring on her middle finger, a triple band of black, silver and gold. Hell, earth and heaven. The mark of the Hasharin. _What could Lord Elrond want with a Hasharin assassin_ , he wondered, but the will of Lord Elrond was not for him to question. Or Gandalf's, for that matter. The council was selected by them both and that was good enough for him. _For now_.

When Elrond cleared his throat, immediately silencing the floor, Sakhra swept her eyes back to the elven lord. _About time_ , she thought, eager to be through with this council so Gandalf could speak his riddles and give her his task.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old," Lord Elrond said, his hard eyes taking in the circled peoples. Even the dwarves sat in rapt attention. "You you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

He shifted in his chair, turning to face the one person more out of place than Sakhra. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

To Sakhra's great surprise, the Halfling stood from his place next to Gandalf and faced the central stone of the chamber. His hand quivered, but he placed the great evil on the stone with the resolve of a king. _The One Ring._ A gasp shivered through the council as whispers were exchanged and Sakhra couldn't help but feel a darkness cool her blood. It was so small, so simple. And it was pure evil. _No_ , something whispered in her ear. _Pure power._

A Man of Gondor, nobility by the looks of him, stood from his own seat and made a plea to the council, begging for the Ring to be brought to Gondor. Sakhra could barely hold her tongue, watching the pompous braggart state his case. She had passed within a breath of Mordor, beyond the Mountains of Shadow, through Khand, tasted the Sea of Nurnen, and seen the fires of Mount Doom. She knew what darkness this thing came from and most of all, that it could never be used to bring light.

Her hands clenched on the arms of her seat but before she felt the words trail from her lips, the ranger spoke up, his own voice angry. "You cannot wield it," he snapped, "None of us can. The Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

The Gondorian sneered at the ranger like he was something on the bottom of his shoe. _Son of Denethor_ , Sakhra finally realized, recognizing that look. The Steward of Gondor was a hard man to forget, particularly when there was a contract out for his head. _But I turned it down. I refused. And I walked away, though many never could._

"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" Boromir, son of the steward, said.

But it was not for the ranger to reply, as the wood elf captain jumped to his feet, incensed. Such rage from an elf, even a wood elf, was strange to see. _They are friends, great friends._

"He is no mere ranger," the elf said, his eyes alight with blue fire. Sakhra couldn't help but notice the color, darkening with his anger, like a sea darkening at sunset. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

Sakhra nearly jumped in her seat, knowing those names as any Hasharin would. There were many contracts taken out for the heirs of Isildur, and as the years passed and the heirs died off, the pay grew. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was worth a treasure even dwarves would drool at. If she took his head right now, the Hasharin would welcome her back with open arms instead of sharpened swords. But Sakhra would not. She made a choice years ago and she intended to live with it.

Aragorn spoke quickly, calming the elf in his own language. Though Sakhra could follow along in Haradaic, Variag, Easterling, Orkish, the Black Speech and the common tongue, Elvish was still unknown to her. She was more accustomed to the harsh, hard words of the south and the fluid language of the Elves had been impossible for her to learn. There were other Hasharin who knew the words, using them to slip within the Elven strongholds to carry out their contracts, but they were older and far more skilled than she. Unlike them, she had only killed men and women for gold. _And I never will again._

The elf captain sat back down, still incensed, though he kept his anger in check. Boromir did little more than strut back to his seat, sparing a condescending glance for Aragorn as he went.

"Gondor has no king. Gondor _needs_ no king."

Sakhra had seen the White Tree with her own eyes. Its branches were like bones, the relics of a dead world. If Aragorn was who the elf said, he could be the one to make it flower again. No son of a steward could do that, Ring of Power or not.

The dwarf was more admirable in her eyes, jumping up from his own kin to try and smash the ring. His axe was heavy, his arm strong, and it should've cleaved the ring in two, but instead the axe shattered, leaving only broken stone and the simple ring. When the dwarf fell back, the elves smirked to themselves, and Elrond himself seemed patronizing as he explained the Ring must be destroyed in Mount Doom itself.

With a shiver, Sakhra let her eyes trail to Gandalf. He was already staring, eyes hard beneath his brows. She could almost hear his voice in her head, speaking over the insufferable Boromir as he protested. _You know the way_. _You have been there. You have seen the Tower, seen the Mountain. You have passed beyond the Shadow and returned._ Again, the elf argued with Boromir, trying to shout down another plea to use the Ring. The fiery dwarf found his own opening, roaring his prejudices towards the elves. It didn't take long for the entire council to fight, bickering like children over a toy, but all the while, her mind echoed with Gandalf's voice. _Where the Ring goes, you must guide._

_A failed assassin and the Ring of Power_ , she thought dimly, raising a hand to her head. _What a match._

She barely heard the Halfling, so engrossed with her own thoughts, but the second time, his words were unmistakable.

"I will take it! I will take the Ring to Mordor!" he yelled over the crowd. Somehow, such small words stilled them all. Gandalf looked almost heartbroken and Sakhra understood; the Halfling was so small, so innocent. His were wide, having never seen the world. And here he was, offering to fight – and destroy – the heart of evil.

When he continued, his voice faltering, she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Though, I do not know the way."

_I do._ But the words stuck in her throat. She couldn't offer herself, not yet, and could only watch as Gandalf, Aragorn, the elf, the dwarf and, to her dismay, Boromir, offered their services to the Halfling. He accepted them all with a smile, looking a little less green than he did a moment before.

When Gandalf's eyes landed on her, she knew her own choice. Thankfully, her feet were sure from many years of walking and her legs did not shake as she stood.

"I have walked the paths you seek," Sakhra said, taking measured steps towards the assembled group. She could feel their eyes, Boromir's especially, burning into her skin. "And I will help guide you, to Mordor and wherever you will go."

She didn't miss both the elf and Boromir open their mouths to protest, but the sudden entrance of yet another jolly little Halfling saved her for the moment. He had strawberry blonde hair and a round physique – the opposite of the rest of them.

"Mr. Frodo's not going anywhere without me," he growled, moving to stand next to his friend. She might have been amused, had he not sounded so serious. Two more Halflings – _do they grow out of the ground?_ – appeared before Elrond could protest, volunteering their services as well. Neither appeared to be very sharp, but both were full of zeal, without a hint of fear. _I cannot say the same for myself._

"Ten companions," Elrond mused, letting his eyes linger on her. Sakhra only stood a bit straighter, not wanting to look afraid in the eyes of such a lord. "You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

_Fellowship. We have no such word in Haradaic_.

The words seemed to hang in the air, part of a history about to unfold. She knew Gandalf felt it too as he met her gaze, quietly happy with her decision. Sakhra was proud, but not happy. There were long days ahead, full of danger, but she welcomes all the Orcs of Mordor. It was the companions, the suspicious elf and the boorish Boromir and the others who would certainly question her, that made her squirm. _It is a long way to Mordor._

But still, the company gave her hope. Boromir seemed calmer, stronger somehow, and the elf and dwarf were not bickering again. Maybe they would not only chase away the shadow of Sauron, but heal the wounds between peoples as well.

_Or the Gondorian will slit my throat in the night. I deserve no less._


	2. You Will Lose

When the council floor had cleared, leaving only the newly forged Fellowship facing Lord Elrond, Sakhra's opponents wasted no time. As was to be expected, the wood elf was quickest to voice his concern, though he did so with the utmost respect. For Elrond, at least.

"My lord, I don't mean to question your judgement, or yours Gandalf," he nodded at the wizard, "but I must at least ask why the lady is permitted to join us on our quest. Surely Aragorn would be an able guide-."

"The lady has a name," she said, her voice harsh as the desert she hailed from. "And her name is Sakhra."

"My apologies, Lady Sakhra," the elf replied, bowing his head again. But his voice was harsh as well, annoyed with her impertinence. _And he is annoying as well_ , she thought to herself. _Another puffed up piece of Elvish fluff._

Boromir piped in a, though he looked surprised to be agreeing with the elf so soon after their argument. "I also feel uneasy about traveling with her."

"Because I am a woman or because I am _Harsatara_?" She chose to use her own language, and the harsh sound made them listen. They knew her as Haradrim, yes, but that was an Elvish name given long ago, and her people had no use for Elvish. "Or is it both?"

Sakhra expected them to stumble, to try and tiptoe around the subject of her race and gender carefully, but the elf did neither.

"Because you are _Hasharin_ ," he growled, his voice low like faraway thunder. She didn't miss his eyes stray to her ring and the gaze made her shiver. "Because you are an assassin, a blade for hire, a thief of the lowest kind. I do not think that a quest to destroy evil should invoke evil."

"Legolas!" Gandalf snapped, putting out an arm to stay the elf's insults, but the words fell against her anyway. To her credit, she didn't flinch. No, she heard much worse many times before, in more unsavory places than Lord Elrond's home. "You will apologize at once."

But Legolas didn't move, his glare hard and cold. The others, even Aragorn who had laughed with her, seemed just as stern, a united front against her joining the quest. _Legolas._ The name rang in her head like a bell. _Prince of Mirkwood. He is also in the contracts._ Many of her guild had tried to kill the elven prince, the heir to the Greenwood kingdom, but none had come very close. _The silk princeling hides a warrior_ , she thought, sparing another moment to observe the elf called Legolas. The velvet cloak hid much and more, but she saw the outline of a dagger and despite his Elvish blood, there were visible calluses on his hands. _An archer, with thousands of years of practice._

Gandalf prodded him again, giving the elf a slight thwack with his staff that would level most. Legolas barely noticed. "Apologize!"

"Forgive my harsh words," Legolas bit out, like a sullen child forced to apologize to a sibling. "But you must understand my unease."

"And everyone else's," Sakhra added, her eyes flickering over the rest of the company. Only the Halflings seemed to hold any joy in their eyes, mainly because they'd never heard of Haradrim until today. They did not know her people or their black reputation, let alone the myths and rumors of her ancient guild. "I turned from the Hasharin path long ago. Gandalf knows this."

"And I vouch for her," the wizard said gruffly, banging his staff on the ground. "And that should be enough for any of you."

It seemed to be, for Aragorn, the dwarf and the Halfling Frodo, and maybe even Legolas, but Boromir still looked uncomfortable. After all, he fought her people many times and had the scars to show for it. The Haradrim were great enemies of Gondor and that was a hard habit to break. "Your people have long been allies of Sauron and of Mordor," the Gondorian mused, running a hand over his chin. "What made you choose our side? Did you sense that you would lose against the might of the West?"

She heaved a breath, knowing he would not like her answer. "I have seen the armies of Mordor, of Harad, of Rhun and Khand. The mumak hordes are many, the ships of the Corsairs even more. Orcs multiply in foul numbers and Mount Doom spits fire again. The Nine ride. I've seen all that the Enemy can offer, and I tell you truly," she hesitated, on the edge of the words. But the truth was the last thing she feared. "I think you will lose."

"And yet here you stand," the Halfling Frodo said, his eyes wide. _Impossibly blue, and full of such hope. Hope I could never know_ , she thought ruefully.

"Here I stand." She felt herself strengthen, emboldened by the Halfling's awe. _At least I can impress someone._ "I would take my leave of you right now, if Gandalf allowed it. But he will not and neither should you, unless of course anyone else knows the way into Mordor?" Bleak silence met her question. "I didn't think so."

The movement was small, but Sakhra's sharp eyes didn't miss Frodo shifting towards her, as if to protect her. Though she had not felt it in years, warmth spread through her heart. _Remarkable creature._ But her eyes quickly found the Ring, hiding away in his jacket pocket. It puckered the soft fabric like it was trying to break free and roll all the way home to Barad-dur. _It just might_. Most of her, _all_ of her, wanted nothing more than the infernal thing to be gone. _But that is not true. The Ring is power, and power will keep you safe. Power will bring you home_.

"I would like the Lady Sakhra to come with us!" Frodo said, his voice chasing away the darkness in her thoughts. He looked like a child, like _less_ than a child, addressing such great men, but still they listened. _He is the Ringbearer now, and we all serve him. Even me._

The other Halflings were quick to agree with Frodo, though the protective one still seemed wary. He casted her shifty glances, but kept his mouth shut. The smallest spoke enough for the both of them though, and chattered at her animatedly.

"Although, that hashahara talk might be a bit difficult to understand," he said, innocently butchering her language. "I'm not really one for foreign tongues."

"I'm shocked," the taller redhead drawled, elbowing the smaller Halfling in the ribs.

They were a strange sort, the Halflings; quiet on their feet and loud in the mouth. _To think, they're worried about taking_ me _on the quest. The Halflings are but a snack to half the things between here and Mordor._ But she didn't voice her opinion, not after Frodo so willing stood up for her. Even if the four surly warriors didn't want her around, at least someone did. It was a long way to Mordor and she could have been saddled with worse company than the Halflings and Gandalf.

"We will arrange for your swift departure," Elrond finally said, sensing that the others would no longer argue. They had not accepted Sakhra, but they would not oppose her joining either, at least under his eye. "Come the morning, the quest will begin."

Legolas nodded, clapping a hand to his chest as he did so. Though Sakhra had lived and seen a thousand different lives, amongst slaves and kings and peasants and chiefs, the elves were still peculiar to her. Particularly the prince, who seemed to be carefully guarding a well-lit fire beneath his cold exterior. She had met many elves in service to Gandalf, but none such as this. Even in the Greenwood, though the elves danced and sang and smiled, nothing ever seemed to stir their hearts much. Strange then, that Legolas had argued so voraciously for Aragorn – and against herself.

The Hasharin trained their own to be wary and vigilant, sensing and seeing all. She took in every small gesture, every lean, each bruise and each little tick. In those few moments, Sakhra understood that Boromir was a swordsman who favored melee fighting, that despite his size, the dwarf could brawl with a troll, that Aragorn favored a smoother style of swordplay using speed rather than strength, and that Legolas was a different sort of elf than she expected. What that meant, however, she did not know.

* * *

There was a feast that night for the emissaries, with the Fellowship in a place of honor, though Sakhra could hardly call the bleak, silent affair a feast. In Harad, feasts lasted for days, broken only when the host ran out of food and chased his guests away with swords and curses. Blood and wine would spill and all would laugh, amused by the violent display of violent delights. She could still smell the nauseating stench of vomit and sweet rum oozing across the table. That was the tent of the chief of the Tortaro, a desert tribe who raised horses in the shadow of the sand dunes. Later that night, when the savage lord brought her to his bed, she choked the life from him with her necklace. Then she stole his horse for good measure.

 _That was a good kill, a good contract_ , she reminded herself when the memory made her shiver. _Toratan was a killer of children, and he deserved death._ But in the quiet of Elrond's banquet hall, it was hard to drown out the sound of him dying, sputtering for one last breath of life that would never come.

"Legolas called you Hasharin," a Halfling, the little guardian whose name was Sam, said from her side. He had already put away two helpings of the main course and showed no signs of stopping, despite his size. "What is that?"

Sakhra smiled, sensing the other Halflings were also curious and pleasantly listening, particularly Merry and Pippen. She wouldn't be surprised if they put Sam up to the question. Across the table, Legolas listened as well, though he showed no signs of it. Instead, he continued speaking with Aragorn in low, hushed voices, though his elf ears heard every word.

"The Hasharin are an ancient guild," she said, choosing her words carefully. For those who did not know, the idea of an assassins' club might seem frightful. "Children are selected when they are young, _very_ young, and taken to train with Hasharin elders across the southern lands. I was a curious girl, more than I should've been in my position, and for that they took me."

"You were selected because you were _curious_?" Legolas couldn't help but scoff, turning away from Aragorn. Though his tone was harsh, he was truly confused.

Blinking, Sakhra only shrugged. "It's not often a three year-old slave girl would climb a mumak just to see what was on top."

 _Slave._ She had not meant to say that and nearly smacked a hand to her forehead, but somehow refrained. She needn't have worried, though; the others were far more concerned with the mumak than her station.

"An _oliphaunt_?" Frodo exclaimed, his eyes very wide again. They seemed to do that often, and over many things. The other Halflings gasped as well, understanding the word oliphaunt better than mumak. "You climbed an _oliphaunt_."

"It was sleeping, and I was a foolish child." She could not remember that night, but the stories were enough to supplant the memory. A cold desert night, beneath a thousand stars, with the mumak caravans on the move. It was nothing for her to slip out, having long figured how to untie her nightly bindings, and scurry up the platform next to the sleeping mumak. Her master beat her for it, before the Hasharin elder cut him in two. He took her by the hand, pulling her away. And that was the last time she saw the master's tent or her mother's face. "It was nothing."

But Legolas saw the flicker of something across her well-controlled face, deep in the dark pools of her eyes. _The Hasharin is a mystery,_ he told himself, still calling her that though she swore she was not one of them any longer. It helped to call her that, and not her name, or else he might begin to see her as a companion, rather than a threat. Like her, he was trained to be wary and to always keep his eyes open. And now, on a quest to save the world, he would not let her blind him.

"You're staring," he heard Aragorn mutter, thankfully in Elvish. Legolas did not blush, Legolas _never_ blushed, but he tore his eyes away all the same.

"I'm interested," Legolas replied, still using his own fluid language.

The use of Elvish, of words she didn't understand, infuriated Sakhra and she barely refrained from tossing her water glass across the table. In Harad, that was considered acceptable, but something told her customs were different in Rivendell. Instead, she spoke her own language, Haradaic, and with great venom. " _Look, I can do that as well_."

Legolas and Aragorn looked back to her, their movements sharp and quick. Neither knew quite how to respond to the ragged, cursing language that sounded like a hissing version of Dwarvish.

Far at the end of the table, Gandalf had to hide his laughter in his gray beard. After all, he was the only one who spoke Haradaic and Elvish, and he heard everything.


	3. Child of Death

* * *

She slept soundly that night, better than she had in many months, but the dreams were the same. Painted in flashes of blood, haunted by the faces of the many she killed. Her years were not long by any count, but she had seen her share of death. _More than my share_. When the images became too much to bear, her eyes snapped open. The moon was still full and dawn was far off, but she knew sleep would return this night.

Rivendell hummed with the voices of the river and a few elves singing somewhere, plucking at harp strings to serenade the valley. The music filled her with regret, forcing her to remember how different her homeland was. Horns and drums and crashing cymbals were the music of the Haradrim, though she had not heard it in nearly five years. Not since she abandoned the _Hasharin_ , choosing to flee rather than suffer the punishment she would face. _Oathbreaker_ , they called her now. _Blood traitor._ The Hasharin could attack her on sight and drag her back to the guild in Umbar, to be whipped or executed or both. Some tried, hunting her as she escaped north. But she trapped them in the mountains, slaying both assassins who dared come after her. Their names were known to her but she did not bury them. _Let their corpses be a warning._

_And now I stand in Rivendell, on the edge of my world._ Sakhra let herself lean against the balcony, taking in the peaceful sight of the moon on a thousand waterfalls. She had seen many wonders in her life, but none like this. _Perhaps it is the hour that makes it beautiful, or the eve of the storm._ For a storm was certainly coming and, despite the safety of Rivendell, she could feel it with every passing second.

Far below, her sharp eyes spotted two figures on a bridge. Half-shrouded by darkness, but one was an elf and her pale skin glowed in the moonlight. The other seemed more accustomed to shadow and embraced her, as if he could absorb her light. Even from such a distance, she recognized his posture. _Aragorn._

And then another word came to her, a word of her own tongue, one she never thought she'd be blessed enough to know. _Kiramir_.

The word had a strange effect. She felt blessed and hollow and sweetly sad, lamenting for herself as well as the lovers soon to part. _I will never know kiramir,_ she understood, having long since turned her mind from the foolish thought.

Sakhra did not become a famed Hasharin by sitting still and she found herself wandering through the quiet halls. The hobbits snored behind their bedroom doors and she couldn't help but smile at the sound. _Sleep well._ She knew it would be their last quiet night for many days.

When she finally sat down beneath an arch, with the moon high above, her thoughts drifted to the journey ahead. _The Misty Mountains, the Great River, through Gondor and Ithilien_. _Then the black passes of Mordor, to the plains of Gorgoroth, where fire and shadow are one._ Just the thought made her shiver and she could almost smell the fumes, the ash, the stench of death all over again.

Her hands moved as she thought, laying her crescent sword across her knees. It flashed in the moonlight, a white blade full of fire. This was no Hasharin dagger (of those she had many), but a proper sword given in payment for a contract. The desert chief was old and feeble, barely able to stand let alone swing a sword, and gave her his blade willingly. He said it came from the Black Numenoreans, the traitors of the old kings, and was forged by a master's hands. Sakhra did not believe that, for the Numenorean blades were priceless and few, but the sword was fine indeed. Heavy and curved, a thick blade that could slice through bone, it had seen her through many dangers. The ebony handle gleamed black, carved with the language of the Haradrim, though the blade itself had other markings, ones she could not decipher. She never asked Gandalf to read it, fearing that he might sense the dark heart of the blade and, in turn, its wielder.

The whetstone scraped against the metal, sharpening an already razored edge, but Sakhra continued working the blade. The sound comforted her; it was something familiar in this strange place.

"You should be sleeping."

Sakhra was not an easy woman to sneak up on, but even her keen senses could not detect an elf, particularly one so swift as the Prince of Mirkwood.

"I have rested long enough," she answered back, expecting him to pass her by. Instead, Legolas stepped into view and surveyed her calmly. He looked like a living statue, pale beneath the moon, with eyes like stars. "Can I help you with something, Prince?"

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the rail, a picture of calm. But she remembered the fire burning deep beneath his skin. "I did not mean to be so harsh to you today."

Sakhra had to scoff at him. "I've heard worse from children. You owe no apology to me."

"Still, I offer it. We are part of a fellowship now and if our quest is to succeed, there cannot be any rifts between us." His eyes followed her movements, still sharpening the sword. _A fine blade_ , he thought, _not meant for a woman._ Briefly he wished to see what she looked like wielding such a sword, but was quickly ashamed by the thought. _She is a guide, not a warrior. She is to be protected, like the hobbits. Like the Ring._

Legolas had managed to distract himself at dinner and through the night, mostly with thoughts of the quest or his companions or the strange Haradrim woman, but still the Ring ate at his mind. He could feel its call, barely a whisper against the din of the rest of the world, but still there.

Her voice shattered his thoughts like glass. "You are the least of my worries."

"Boromir?" Judging by his monstrous glares throughout dinner, the Gondorian's hatred for her seemed to rival that of the elves and dwarves.

Sakhra nodded, though she refused to meet Legolas's gaze.

"We must all put aside our own prejudices, for the good of the quest," he told her, echoing Lord Elrond's own advice from just an hour ago. _The dwarf will be a burden_ , he argued then, trying to sway Elrond's mind. _The dwarf, the hobbits - and the woman._ But the elf held firm. _All have a part to play in this_ , he advised, before gliding away in a swirl of silk and resolve. "Boromir will not trouble you."

Another scrape of the whetstone. "You speak like you must protect me."

Legolas bowed his head. _A burden_ , he thought again. "Because I will. You and the hobbits."

_The hobbits. Happy, bumbling, helpless creatures._ _He counts me with them._ Just the notion set her teeth on edge and her blood to boil.

She drew out a cloth to wipe the blade and shifted away, but Legolas could still see her scowl. "Perhaps you elves are only farsighted and cannot see what lies directly in front of you," she said, trying to the quiver of rage from her voice. "But I bear a ring of the _Hasharin_ and a blade that has tasted the blood of sixty-seven men. Do not speak to me like I am a child or a soft-handed woman, for I am neither, Legolas of Mirkwood, and you would do well to remember that."

Then she stood, and in the same fluid motion, sheathed her sword. The blade sang as it moved, sharp enough to cut the night breeze. When it fell into place her hip, Sakhra felt whole again. Whole and angry.

She left Legolas standing at the rail, her footsteps light and fading even to his elven ears. He did not pursue her, instead feeling rooted to the spot.

_I said nothing wrong. I apologized and still she despises me_ , he thought, biting back an Elvish curse. He felt his own anger rising, but now he tried to control his temper. Legolas did not go after her, not even to defend his words, and turned away to face the valley. _A burden indeed._

* * *

At dinner, Boromir had suggested riding most of the way and leaving their mounts in Gondor before crossing into Mordor, but Aragorn dismissed the idea. This was a journey of great – and secret – importance. A wizard, an elf, a dwarf, four hobbits, two men and a woman riding across Middle-Earth would not go unnoticed. Sakhra was glad for his opinion, much preferring to walk herself. Her steps were quiet and quick, not like the heavy tramping of horses. Even so, she would miss the sand-colored mare, another daughter of the desert in this strange company.

It was dawn when she left the stables, the last of her gear slung over her shoulder. The horse would be safe here in Rivendell, and looked almost happy to see her go. _If only I could stay as well_ , she lamented, but that could not be. The quest lay ahead, with all its dangers.

Despite the early hour, the courtyard crowded with the House of Elrond as many came to see the Fellowship off. Sakhra pulled her coat tighter around her and avoided their farewells, knowing that none were meant for her. In sharp contrast, the dwarves rowdily embraced Gimli, slapping him on the shoulders, while Legolas seemed to goodbye every elf within a thousand feet. Sakhra just wanted to get on with it, and rolled her eyes at the display. She shifted, moving quiver higher on her shoulder. The black yew bow was small, more suited to hunting, but it would serve. _Not that I'll need it, with the elf around._

"No wonder they live so long," Gimli chortled at her side, speaking quietly for a dwarf. "If it takes them half a year to get anything done."

Sakhra smirked, trying very hard not to laugh, and had to reattach the veil to hide her smile. "I believe you have discovered the secret to immortality, Master Dwarf," she said from behind the veil.

Gimli grinned, smacking her on the arm as he would a comrade. It felt like a blow from a hammer, but Sakhra welcomed the gesture. There would be a bruise later, but she would wear it as a badge of friendship.

As the moments wore on, her smile faded and her toes curled in her boots. She could feel the edge of the cliff they all stood on, about to leap into the depths below. Another felt it too. On the steps of Elrond's house, the pale elf girl stood, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. She kept her hands clasped, probably to stop them shaking, and stared at Aragorn as he moved to Gandalf's side.

The word echoed again. _Kiramir._ And again, it made Sakhra sad.

Though Legolas's long goodbyes annoyed her moments before, now she wished they would not end, and she could stay here in the courtyard forever. Grass would grow over her feet and vines would tie her down, never to leave the safety of Elrond's home again.

_The places you've been, the things you've seen, the deeds you've done…you have no right to feel afraid._ But still, in her heart of hearts, she felt the familiar tremor of fear deep inside. Only the hard hilt of her sword, the weight of daggers and her worn leathers could chase it away, reminding Sakhra of who she was.

"The Ringbearer is setting out on the quest of Mount Doom," Elrond said from his perch, his words seeming to shake the leaves of the trees, "and you who travel with him, no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will." _None would break this fellowship. Not for anything._ Sakhra knew men and their almost stifling sense of honor; they would not abandon Frodo, even in the face of death. _And neither will I._

The little hobbit looked frail in comparison to the mighty warriors of the company, but she could see steel in his blue eyes. It matched the little elven sword now hanging from his belt. The other hobbits were armed similarly, with swords meant for children or over-sized daggers. On another occasion, she would have laughed, but now she couldn't find the strength. These were happy creatures not meant for war, and yet the greatest war of the age would soon be all around them.

Frodo felt her glance and met her gaze, nodding slightly. He even smiled, though his cheeks flushed, not used to such attention. Sakhra smiled back, before remembering her veil. The worn, dark red cloth was from her homeland and it protected her identity, her thoughts, her emotions from the world. But now, she realized, it also trapped them in.

_All the better_ , she told herself. _The bleeding heart of a woman has no place here._

Elrond raised a hand, bidding them good-bye. "Farewell," he called, somehow managing to meet the eyes of all. He lingered on her last of all, lips pulled into a grim line. "Hold to your purpose and the may the blessings of elves, men, and all the free folk go with you."

_Free folk. Never have I heard the Haradrim called such._ But still she bowed her head with the others, saying farewell to the Last Homely House.

Gandalf nudged Frodo, letting him lead the line of companions from the courtyard. She couldn't hear the wizard, but knew he was quietly guiding Frodo away from the elvish stronghold.

With a sigh, she turned over her shoulder, allowing herself one last glimpse of Rivendell. _I will not see this sight again_.

She tore her eyes away with some reluctance, feeling herself slide back behind the veil, into Sakhra the Wanderer, the Hasharin, the Sand Shadow. The stone beneath her feet gave way to dirt and she knew they were well and truly on their journey now.

They walked in relative silence for many hours, though the hobbits chattered amongst themselves, with Gimli piping in occasionally. He seemed to get on with them, Frodo most of all, and they traded stories about old relatives who crossed paths before. Normally Sakhra would've listened, but the occasional glint of gold and silver at Frodo's neck made her put some distance between them. _Out of sight, out of mind_. The old adage proved true with the Ring as well, for now, at least.

The Misty Mountains rose to their left, a sharp and craggy wall barring the eastern sky. Sakhra named the peaks in her head, and the few passes in between, though she knew Gandalf favored none of them.

"Do you mean to try the Gap of Rohan, Gandalf?" she called out to the wizard, now leading the Fellowship.

Instead, Boromir barked a laugh at her. "Do you know a safer way east?" he said, turning his sharp eyes on her. His gaze lingered on her veil, and it made him sneer. "In my country, only deceivers and traitors feel the need to hide their faces."

Though he stood at the back of the line with Aragorn, Legolas had no trouble hearing the dark turn in conversation. He tensed slightly, but why he could not say.

Sakhra didn't rise to Boromir's challenge and her hand never strayed to her veil. "I didn't comment on your party blouse," she snapped back, gesturing to his vibrant purple and gold tunic, "so show me some courtesy."

She didn't miss the gentle rise and fall of Gandalf's shoulders as he laughed, smothering the sound into his beard. Gimli guffawed openly and even Aragorn cracked a smile. He too noticed Boromir's attire and thought it seemed more suited to great halls rather than the wilds. Legolas, meanwhile, was not amused at all. _Baiting the Gondorian will get her nowhere_ , he thought, and rightfully so.

"I do mean to try the Gap, my dear," Gandalf finally replied, hoping to stop a brewing argument before it could begin. Instead, he unknowingly began another.

Sakhra shook her head slightly. She didn't like to disagree with Gandalf, but it had to be done sometimes. "I passed the Gap myself on my way to Rivendell and found it nearly overrun by Saruman."

"You passed through, why shouldn't we?" the hobbit Sam asked. He kept close to their pack pony, Bill, and always seemed to be snacking. "We've got a wizard and a good deal more warriors than you did."

"Granted, Master Hobbit," she sighed, annoyed at having to explain herself, "but I had speed and shadow on my side. A wizard and a good deal of warriors do not, not to mention Saruman's influence will have spread since last I rode."

Finally, Gandalf planted his staff and stopped walking. The rest of the Fellowship paused with him, watching Sakhra. The hobbits Merry and Pippin quickly found a rock to sit on, already tired from the first few hours of the quest.

"Are you suggesting Caradhas, or the High Pass?" Gandalf asked, gesturing at the mountains.

She nodded. "If we must."

Again, Boromir took the opportunity to needle at her. "Perhaps we'll find luck in the snows, and the cold will freeze her desert blood."

"Perhaps you'll find some manners," she said coolly, and even Legolas had to turn away. "For a noble son of Gondor, you are shockingly rude."

But Boromir was not so easily cowed, even taking a few steps towards her. He was a large man and menacing, but men did not frighten her anymore. "Answer me one question, Haradrim, and I will not say another word against you."

Sakhra almost laughed, so relieved by his words. _A question I can handle._ "Ask what you will."

He didn't hesitate, throwing the words like knives. "How many men of the West have you killed?"

To her great shame, Sakhra did not immediately know the answer, and she felt all her hard will falter.

"How many sons of Gondor, of Rohan and Arnor, how many elves and dwarves and hobbits have you slain in service to your black cause?"

_My sword has tasted the blood of sixty-seven men_ , Legolas thought, remembering her words earlier this morning. But she was quick to offer up a number then. Now the words eluded her and she seemed, despite the weapons and the veil, like a cornered child. _She is a child. A daughter of men, barely a ripple on the sea of my lifetime._

Sakhra could feel their eyes watching, waiting, _judging_. Even Frodo. The Ring gleamed at his neck, poking out from the collar of his shirt. It seemed to pulse, beating like a racing heart.

"I killed on both sides of the River Harnen," she finally said, her voice thick and low. "Men of the South and of the West. I was given contracts and I fulfilled them. Prince or peasant, it did not matter. A son of Gondor or a son of Harad. I killed _both_ ," she repeated, hoping that fact would count for something. Her gaze fell on the hobbits, and the fear she saw there made her heart clench. "Never an elf. Or a dwarf or hobbit. They were not my specialty."

"Specialty," Boromir scoffed, disgusted at the sight of her. "Pray tell what was that?"

_You don't have to answer to him. You don't have to explain yourself._ Gandalf would be the first to remind her of that. _You have changed._

"Boorish Gondorian captains were my specialty," she suddenly snapped, closing the distance between them in a flash. It was quick enough to startle Boromir and he flinched, though she drew no blade. "You may think whatever you wish about the Haradrim, who are, for the most part, a savage, violent, destructive people, but know that I am not the same as my countrymen. I have not filled a contract in half a decade and, despite your very best efforts, I don't mean to complete another ever again."

"I am part of this Fellowship, Boromir, Son of Denethor, and I am _not_ leaving it, no matter how much you might want me to." To her own surprise, she felt herself extend a hand towards Boromir. "Can you live with that?"

Boromir stared at her hand like it was a snake. "I can," he finally said, and turned without taking her hand.

That night, Aragorn took the first watch, though Sakhra lay awake for hours. She did not want them to hear her dreaming, muttering the names of the many. When she finally did fall asleep, only the elf caught her voice, barely a whisper on the wind. At first he thought it might've been a prayer, but he soon understood her list.

_She is a child of death_ , he thought to himself as he watched her toss. _And death will always haunt her._


	4. In A Name

The days took on a rhythm, beginning early with a sparse breakfast (though Sam proved to be a master cook with even the sparest of victuals) and ending with the hobbits singing at the fire. Gimli had taken to teaching them some dwarvish tunes, to Legolas's great dismay. He didn't complain, but wrinkled his nose and turned away from the fire every time Gimli's less than pleasant singing began. In sharp contrast, Sakhra enjoyed the songs that were harsh and rowdy and guttural, reminding her of home.

Together with Aragorn, she found herself designated as the company hunter, though Legolas could probably fell more deer and rabbits than the both of them. But the elf objected to killing the woodland creatures, leaving she and Aragorn to hunt together. The man was grave, but not unpleasant company, and a skilled hunter. She wouldn't be surprised if he had elfblood, judging by the way he could spot a deer in darkness. For her part, Sakhra was better suited to drudging up rabbits and fowl from the forest floor. She had hunted in the deserts and jungles of Harad; the woods of the Misty Mountains were hardly a challenge at all.

They didn't speak much on their hunting trips, though Aragorn was never rude to her. She could tell he didn't have an opinion on her one way or another, and that Gandalf's word was all that stood between her and his judgment.

A week into their journey, she waited by the designated stump in the woods, a half-dozen rabbits hanging from her belt. Sam would be happy to see them, and she hoped to get some more of his delicious stew. She heard Aragorn before she saw him, his movement surprisingly loud through the underbrush.

"Careful, you'll scare the game away," she called out to him, almost laughing when he came into view. The man had a heavy deer draped over his shoulder, and his face was red with exertion. "Perhaps we can enlist Boromir as our bag man?"

"Then I'll be dragging you out of the forest," he replied swiftly, not missing a step. "I see he's kept his word."

"Yes he has."

Her expression soured behind her veil, though Aragorn couldn't see it. But her eyes were enough. The man knew she was hurting, and not from any wound. And though she had Gandalf and Elrond's blessing, he couldn't feel sorry for her. She was Haradrim, _Hasharin_ , a killer. Though she'd been polite with them, she had done nothing to calm his own suspicions. The hobbits seemed to like her, but hobbits liked anything. _That veil does not help at all_ , he thought. It made her look like a Haradrim warrior, an enemy to them all. It was a shield between her and the rest of the Fellowship, preventing any from truly breaking through.

_Answer me one question, Haradrim, and I will not say another word against you._ It echoed in her head still. Yes, Boromir didn't pick at Sakhra any longer, but instead pretended she didn't exist at all. _I don't know which I prefer_ , she mused as they made their way back to camp. Arguments and insults were easy to handle, but being ignored was another thing entirely. Luckily the others did not follow his example, if only to please Gandalf.

She and the wizard spent most of the time together, their heads bent to plan the paths ahead. Occasionally he would wave Frodo over, showing him a map of Mordor and the surrounding lands. Why Gandalf did, Sakhra couldn't say. Frodo had so many guides – Gandalf, Aragorn, herself – but something in the wizard made him teach Frodo. And Frodo devoured the knowledge, eager to learn as much as he could.

"The plains of Gorgoroth are clouded by shadow and smoke from the mountain," she muttered to the Halfling over Sam's cook fire. Frodo listened raptly, fascinated by her tales, and it pleased her. Sam was interested as well, but more focused on the sausages frying in his pan. "There is no sunlight, but the land is always hot and dry. Water is hard, if not impossible to find for _misaratar_."

Frodo quirked an eyebrow, perplexed. By now he was used to her occasional dips into Haradaic, but still the words were unknown to him. " _Misaratar_?"

"Outlanders, not Haradrim," she said, gesturing between them. "My people are greatly skilled at finding water in the harshest of places. Some say we have a nose for it."

The clang of swords sounded from the clear ground beneath her perch of rocks. Normally, she would spring to action at such a noise, but Merry and Pippin's lessons had dulled her senses. They would train with Boromir at every turn, though they laughed at their lessons like children.

Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but watch as the Gondorian sparred with the two hobbits. He was a good teacher, she had to admit, and gentler with them than she would be. Aragorn kept a close eye as well, grinning at the hobbits as he smoked on his pipe.

"Move your feet," he said, observing Pippin as he parried a practiced blow from Boromir. _Stay on your toes,_ she wanted to add, but knew any of her input, right or wrong, would incense Boromir.

"You might do well to ask for lessons as well," she said, turning back to Frodo. The hobbit chomped down on a sausage and shrugged, his floppy hair shaking. "Skill with a sword will serve you better than my stories."

"I like your stories," Frodo replied. He shifted, making room for Sam on his rock. To her surprise, the blonde hobbit nodded along, agreeing. "The more we know about Mordor, the better prepared we'll be when we get there."

_Amazing creatures_ , she thought, watching them munch through their meal without a care. They were headed for deepest, darkest evil, and seemed not to bat an eye. Of the four hobbits, only Frodo seemed a bit tentative, even fearful though he hid it well. _The Ring weighs on him_.

She had to stand up sharply, to forcibly pull herself out of those thoughts, lest she spend the rest of the day in hard, brewing silence. In a few quick strides, she found herself on the edge of the rocks, staring at the clouds moving in the wind. With the breeze at her back, she felt calm again, and her hand strayed to her face. When the veil fell away, she had to smile to herself, enjoying the brief moment of freedom.

Dimly, she heard Gimli argue with Gandalf, mentioning something about Moria, but she knew the wizard was no fool. He would not chance the mines, not for anything.

"You should not veil yourself around us."

_The damn elf._ Again, she did not hear him approach, but now he stood very close indeed. "I'm going to put a bell on you if you keep doing that," she said, fixing her veil back in place. He scowled at the action, and it made her glad.

"It serves no purpose but to make others uncomfortable," he continued, trying his best to remain civil. _She is insufferable._

She smirked behind her veil. "I make you uncomfortable, Prince?"

Legolas clenched his jaw, knowing how easily she could twist his words. He turned his gaze back to the horizon, watching the mountains and the southern hills. "I am not Boromir. I carry no prejudices against you."

_I am a human woman from an enemy nation. Your prejudices are too many to count._ "I did not know the Prince of Mirkwood was so skilled at lying."

He would have argued, but a dark shadow in the sky drew his eyes. Sakhra followed his gaze, eyes narrowed, until shouting drew her back. She turned to see the hobbits scrabbling on the ground with Boromir, all of them laughing. When Aragorn joined the fray, tripped up by the hobbits, she regretted she could not join them.

Wary as always, Sam didn't laugh at the display, turning instead to the sky. He saw it too. "What is that?"

_A dark cloud. An omen?_ She squinted, quietly cursing her human eyesight. As the breeze stirred at her back, cold realization swept through her. _It moves against the wind_.

"Crebain from Dunland!" Legolas shouted, and then his hand was on hers, dragging her back to the rocks. Normally she would've shrugged him off, not needing the elf to mind her, but now was not the time for fights. _The eyes of Isengard are coming._

The Fellowship moved swiftly, dousing their fires and hiding their gear at blinding speed. They made sure to hide the hobbits first, though the small folk were skilled at going unseen and disappeared behind the rocks. Sakhra herself had a talent for hiding and quickly slipped into a red-leaved crop of bushes. In her black and brown leathers, with her maroon veil, even Legolas could hardly see her against the foliage. Only her eyes gleamed out, two brown gems sparkling in the sunlight. From his own hiding space, Legolas kept watch on her and couldn't help but flinch as the birds came screaming.

They were well and truly hidden by the time the Crebain reached their rocks, but the birds screeched and searched, swirling around the hilltop. Sakhra would call it a miracle if they saw nothing, and despaired. _Saruman has found us._ She fought the urge to pick a bird out of the air, to cut it open and spill its blood as a warning to all the others, but that would be foolish. _Those are the acts of a barbarian, of the Haradrim. You are not that anymore._ Instead she waited in boiling stillness, her nerves surging with every croak of the birds. When they finally disappeared, black wings fading into the sunlight, she felt the sudden urge to run.

Gandalf met her eyes as he emerged from his hiding spot, his hat in hand. "Spies of Saruman," he muttered, almost cursing to himself. "You were right, Sakhra. The passage south is being watched."

Sakhra should've felt triumphant, proud even, but it never came. Instead she sighed aloud and kicked at the rocks. "The High Pass is far behind us now, too far to turn back," she said, and Gandalf nodded.

She shivered in anticipation of Gandalf's choice, knowing what they would have to face.

"We must take the Pass of Caradhas."

* * *

The snows were waist-deep and despite the bright sunlight of the new day, it chilled her blood. _I am a daughter of the desert. I was not meant for paths like this._ But complaining, stumbling or even shivering would only prove Boromir right, so she walked on in earnest. Gandalf led them, cutting a path that Boromir widened with his broad strides so the hobbits could pass. She remained by Frodo, watching him in Sam's stead as the hobbit had gone to attend the pony.

Merry and Pippin amused themselves by making snowballs, tossing them at Boromir or Gimli. Both chuckled heartily, and Boromir even responded with a few massive snowballs of his own. _He is kind to the hobbits, at least. His heart is not completely cold._

"Dwarves are not meant for the snow," Gimli grumbled to himself, his iron-shod feet slipping on the slope. "We live in the mountains, not _on_ them. The mines of-."

"Gimli, if you mention Moria one more time, I shall call down a snowstorm to follow you for the rest of your days," Gandalf snapped back, glancing over his shoulder at the weary dwarf. Gimli blustered, but something in Gandalf's eyes told him not to press the matter.

Sakhra laughed into her veil, now very glad for its warmth. "And what is so amusing to you, Sakhra Shastaskar?" Gandalf continued. _The snow has made him quite irritable_.

"Nothing at all, Master Gandalf," she called back, not wanting to tease the wizard further. "Carry on."

"Sakhra Shastaskar," Pippin mumbled slowly, turning the words over in his mouth. "I think I'd sooner be able to speak the tongues of birds than Haradaic."

Legolas knew little of the Haradaic language, but enough to know that Shastakar was not a family name. _Sand Shadow._ The _Hasharin_ would not give out that title freely. _What did she do to earn it?_

"Remind me never to tell you my full name, then," Sakhra said, elbowing Pippin a little. Of course, that set the hobbits on edge and they bounced around her, begging and pleading to hear her true name. The others were not so open, but Legolas listened in earnest and even Boromir found himself waiting for her answer.

"We'll reach Mordor before she even finishes," Aragorn warned, smirking a bit.

His own knowledge of the Haradaic was greater than Legolas's, having fought against the corsairs of Umbar as well as traveled throughout Near Harad in younger days. The few Haradrim he had known were enemies, but he remembered their speech, full of growls and hisses and unending sound. But he had never seen a _Hasharin_ , not in Umbar or the deserts. They were a hidden people, unknown to most, and a myth to the rest. _To think one would join the quest to destroy the Ring_ – it almost made his head spin.

"It can't be worse than _Khuzdul_ ," Gimli said, before speaking aloud his own name in the language of the dwarves. It was short but guttural, like wind howling through rock.

Legolas tried not to scowl at the sound of Dwarvish. "I must agree with the dwarf."

"And I suppose yours is much better?" Gimli bellowed, turning to look at him. Instead, he found himself level with the elf's feet as he pranced upon the snow.

Legolas grinned to himself, pleased to have shown up the dwarf yet again. " _Legolas Thranduillion_ ," he replied, putting the Elvish lilt to his voice. Though she hated Elvish because she couldn't understand it, Sakhra certainly heard the beauty in the words. _Not like Haradaic._

"I would tell you all my names," Gandalf began, glad that they seemed to warming to each other, "But I fear only Legolas would live to see the end of that."

More laughter rumbled through the Fellowship, uniting them in that single moment. For a second, Sakhra forgot she was the outlander here. That is until Frodo tugged on her sleeve, his blue eyes wide and undeniable.

"Tell us, Sakhra. Tell us your name, too."

She heaved a breath, knowing she would sorely need it to get through. "You must remember, our names our long because they – they tell our story. Our parents, our station, and even who we become. Our names are always changing."

_Would it change again?_ she wondered to herself. _I truly hope so._

They kept moving through the snow, the only noise their footsteps as all waited for her to continue. Again, Frodo touched her arm, and she relented.

" _Sakhra Kezrasha, sazgirak Rikahran Serprons, zi Harsatara Karskars, Shastaskar, Hasharina Mez, Otorana na Otarala._ " She bit her lip, hating the last word for what it meant and loving herself for having earned it. " _Onsatara._ "

She knew Gandalf understood the word and how it came to be hers, but prayed the others would not. It was a shameful thing to be called, and the word twisted in her like a knife.

The others seemed too shocked to respond, surprised that such a long name could belong to one person. "You Haradrim might be at risk of running out of words if everything goes along like that," Sam finally said, bringing them out of their silence.

"I assure you, Sam, the Haradrim do not want for words," she answered with a half-smile. "My people are not exactly talkative."

"What does it mean?" Merry asked, not knowing how personal a name was, particularly to outsiders. He didn't sense her unease, but the older men did. _They might not understand,_ she thought, afraid to continue.

Legolas understood her trepidation, if not her name. Some elves guarded their names jealously, hiding their true hearts from the world. But he didn't know Haradrim did the same, pouring their whole lives into a few twisted noises. _Perhaps we are not so different._

Before Merry could ask again, prodding further, Sakhra nodded at him. "Very well, Master Hobbit," she sighed, weary of their constant smiles and questions. "Quite plainly, it means Sakhra, daughter of Kezrash, slave of Rikahran Snake Blood, child of the Haradrim desert. That's the part I was given at birth."

_Slave._ The word hung in the air like a curse, but no one reached out to take it, and she relaxed slightly.

"The rest are names I've earned over my life. _Shastaskar –_ Sand Shadow." Legolas noted she did not say how she earned that one, and he swore he would find out. Not just for the good of the quest, but his own curiosity. " _Hasharina Mez,_ that's a fallen Hasharin, one who turns from the path, who has forsaken the guild and its bloody way. The rest are not so nice," she said, her voice faltering a little. "Otorana, otarala, onsatara."

"Outcast, outsider, betrayer of the blood." The words fell from her lips like blood. "Because I left the Hasharin and refused to enlist in the army, to serve the Eye and the Black Lands as all others did. Because I broke bread with Gandalf the Gray without trying to kill him. Because I am here now, in the Fellowship of the Ring."

Even Boromir stilled a bit, his gaze not so hard as before. She was still a Haradrim, yes, with a past drowning in blood, but there was more to her than the past. It was part of her, part of her name, but didn't rule her now. He did not trust her, but he did not hate her and would not again, until she gave him a good reason.

"Perhaps now you've earned a new name to go along with all the others?" Aragorn said gravely, his eyes thoughtful.

She shrugged, happy that for the broken silence. "A name must be given. I cannot take one."

Aragorn seemed pleased by that and stooped, whispering something to Frodo. The little hobbit grinned widely, nodding in agreement. He bounded to Sakhra's side, the picture of eagerness.

"I name you _terazon,_ Sakhra Shastaskar," Frodo said. His breath clouded on the air but Sakhra saw none of it, so shocked by his words.

Legolas wracked his brain, trying to remember the little Haradaic he knew. Despite his three thousand years, this word was unknown to him, but not to Sakhra. She glanced between Frodo and Aragorn, her eyes wide. Despite the veil, everyone knew she was smiling.

Then she bowed her head, sweeping one hand to the side. "I accept the name, Master Baggins," she said to Frodo, though her eyes remained on Aragorn. The man only nodded in return, aware of the kingly gift he had given her.

Pippin opened his mouth, ready with another question, but Sakhra cut him off with a roll of her eyes. "It means guardian," she explained, her voice now light and cheerful.

"I knew that," Merry muttered, earning himself a smack from Pippin.

It wasn't long before they were scuffling again, throwing snow like children. But Sakhra didn't mind, so overjoyed by her new name. Even when Pippin hit her square in the face with a snowball, she didn't do more than laugh. She caught a glance from Gandalf, and the shadow of a wink. The old wizard always knew more than he let on and he knew that, Haradrim or not, Sakhra would find her way.

Slowly but surely, the Fellowship was drawing together, and she was part of it.


	5. Snow And Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love guys! Also, I started a tumblr for this ( thesandshadow.tumblr.com ) if anyone's interested.

The slopes of Caradhas grew steeper as they climbed and the snows deepened to the point where Sakhra nearly slipped several times. She casted jealous glances at Legolas, still dancing on top of the snow. Sometimes her ran ahead, sometimes behind, but always fast and light and seemingly without effort. His cheeks weren't even red in the cold, though the rest of them, even Boromir and Aragorn, drew their cloaks against the cold.

"I don't suppose that's a skill you can teach," Sakhra called out the third time he darted past. To her dismay, he didn't even skid in the snow when he turned to face her.

He smirked a little, pleased with himself. "Can I teach you to become an elf?"

"I have many talents, but shifting my race is not one of them," she answered back, her voice sharp but with no bite.

"Bah!" Gimli barked from further ahead. He waved a gloved hand, while the other clenched around his walking axe. "Pay no heed to the princeling, my lady. It's real men who keep their feet on the ground!"

Merry and Pippin voiced their agreement, or at least attempted to as their teeth chattered. She couldn't fathom how they were still moving through the snow, bare feet and all.

"Well-said, Master Dwarf," she replied, earning a grin from Gimli.

Legolas shook his head at them, sparing one last glance at Sakhra only to find she had turned away. Her veil remained in place, despite the earlier conversations, and it vexed him terribly. He liked to see her expressions, if only to better understand her mind. _If she guards Frodo as well as she guards her thoughts, he'll be safe walking right through the Black Gate._

He wanted to speak out, to ask about the veil again, but just then Frodo slipped in the snow, and tumbled head over heels down the mountainside. Legolas darted after him, but Aragorn caught the hobbit at his feet before he could fall down the mountain.

"It's fine, I just slipped," Frodo said, letting Aragorn pull him to his feet again. But the hobbit looked pained, his hands flying to his neck.

 _The Ring._ Sakhra's eyes widened, immediately flying to snow. _Lost to the snows._ Her body suddenly pulsed with the need to find to find the Ring _._ She nearly felt it when Boromir stooped to the snow, his hands closing on the familiar silver chain. He stared at the Ring, a strange hunger in her eyes.

Sakhra knew that look; she saw it in the eyes of the Haradrim soldiers, the warriors fighting for Sauron. The ones who knew his power, his darkness, and _wanted_ it. _I was like them once, a slave to another. To Rikahran, the Hasharin, always following orders, always wanting more._

"Boromir!" Aragorn snapped and Sakhra did not miss his hand tightening on his sword. The action was not unwarranted. Everyone knew the strength of the Ring – and the weakness of man.

But Boromir didn't seem to be listening, transfixed by the Ring. In that instant, Sakhra felt a strange kinship to the man who despised her. "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing," the Gondorian murmured, spinning the Ring on its chain. He seemed dead to the world, engrossed in the simple band of gold. "Such a little thing."

Sakhra felt herself staring, marveling at how the Ring reflected the sun on snow. _It's beautiful_ , she thought. The Haradrim woman had seen and owned many treasures in her life, but none so perfect as this.

Aragorn shouted again, his voice sharper and stronger. "Boromir!" The man jumped at the sound, shocked back to life, and Sakhra also felt her will returning. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

"As you wish," Boromir said, forcing a chuckle. "I care not." He held out the chain, dangling it in front of Frodo. The hobbit snatched the Ring away, relaxing only when it hung around his neck again. He didn't even seem to notice when Boromir ruffled his hair, or when Aragorn nudged him on once more.

Again, Sakhra was glad for her veil, lest all of them see her deep red flush. The Ring had tempted her too and thankfully, no one noticed.

But the elf fell quiet and ceased his prancing for the moment. He could feel darkness like a cold wind and fell back into line with the others. Like Aragorn, he kept his eyes on Boromir's bulky form, but his eyes occasionally flickered to the Haradrim woman as she fought through the snow. She had tasted evil more than any of them; it was a hard thing to turn away from.

The dark shadow weighed heavy on Legolas as they continued to climb, marring his thoughts. He furrowed his brow, thinking of the Hasharina and Boromir and even Aragorn. They were of the race of Men; their resistance to the Ring's call might not last to Mordor. He would be loathe to lose them all, even the girl. She seemed to be a comfort to the hobbits, and to Gandalf. And her presence was interesting, if not pleasantly infuriating. Three thousand years of men Legolas had lived, and few things, human or elf, could keep his attention anymore. Aragorn, his dearest friend, was one of them. Perhaps the Hasharina, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, would be as well.

When the sky darkened overhead, Sakhra knew it was wrong. The sun was far from setting, yet shadow had fallen. "Foul weather ahead," she said aloud, a warning.

"We have no such thing in the mines-," Gimli began, but Gandalf cracked his staff against the mountain rock, silencing him.

Sakhra put a hand on Gimli's shoulder as snow began to fall. She agreed wholeheartedly with Gandalf's decision to avoid the mines, but Gimli's persistence made her smile. "You are brave to needle Gandalf the Gray," she said, laughing slightly.

"I do not needle," the dwarf replied, brushing snow from his beard. "But I am brave, my lady. And this mountain shall not conquer me!"

Of course, at that moment, the dwarf misstepped and nearly disappeared into a snow bank, but for Sakhra's hand grabbing him at the last moment. The hobbits' laughter echoed on the wind, sending Gimli sputtering again as he righted himself.

"Easy for you to laugh!" he growled, wagging a finger at them. "But I'll not have anyone carrying me!"

Indeed, Frodo and Sam now clutched at Aragorn, while Merry and Pippin did the same to Boromir. As the howling wind picked up, Sakhra understood – they did not want to be blown off the mountain. The screaming wind seemed to cut through her like a knife, chilling her blood, and she drew closer to Gimli. Despite his short stature, the dwarf felt like a furnace and was no small comfort to her.

Gimli noted her closeness and smiled, brushing snow away again. "Perhaps you have the right idea with that veil."

"Snow or sand, the veil does its job," she replied, tightening her grip on his shoulder. He was her anchor, and she his as they ascended the mountain in a growing blizzard.

Legolas watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, and briefly wished he could join the rest of the Fellowship in their freezing. Instead, he stood on the snow, waiting for them, pleasantly warm in his thin elvish clothes. Not even the blizzard seemed to touch him, not like it did the others, and for the first time in his long life, it made him sad. _Is this what being an outsider feels like_? The others coughed and slipped and clutched at each other for warmth, but he had no part in it. For a moment, he entertained the idea of giving his cloak to the girl, but a strange echo pushed the thought away.

He turned his head into the wind, straining his ears to listen. Beneath the brim of his hat, Gandalf watched the elf stiffen, and felt his strength falter.

"Legolas?" he called, shouting over the roaring wind. The snowstorm raged now, ripping at the Fellowship with icy fingers.

For a moment, Legolas didn't respond, still listening. "There is a fell voice on the air!" he finally called, eyes wide.

 _A voice in the storm?_ Sakhra felt a chill, but not from the cold. _The eyes of Isengard,_ she thought again, remembering the Crebain and smoke rising from the black tower. Gimli sensed her unease and grabbed her arm, pulling her back from the edge of the path.

"It's Saruman!" Gandalf shouted and raised his staff to the air just as a bolt of lightning split the sky.

The Fellowship flinched as one, ducking in their hoods and cloaks while rock and shale tumbled down, sliding off the mountain side in heavy sheets. The hobbits curled into their keepers, finally afraid of the world, and Boromir wrapped his arms tighter around Merry and Pippin.

Aragorn tucked Sam and Frodo against him, keeping them safe, before turning his gaze to Gandalf. "He's trying to bring down the mountain!" But the wizard chose not to hear, attempting to press on through the wind and thundersnow. " _Gandalf_ , we must turn back!"

 _Back to where_? Sakhra thought dimly, knowing the only other paths open to them. The Gap of Rohan, and Isengard. _We cannot go that way. We have come too close already._

"We cannot go back!" she called against the wind, hoping Aragorn would understand. _There is no other way._

She tried to follow, pushing on after Gandalf until his gray robes blew against her. She wanted to reach out, to hold onto the strongest thing she knew in this world, but Gandalf stepped away from her grasp and onto a snowbank. Another gust of wind had her stumbling but she barely noticed, her eyes locked on the old wizard silhouetted against the storm. Something warm closed around her wrist, pulling her away from the cliff edge. _Gimli_ , she thought dimly, though the hands were far too gentle to be the dwarf's.

Gandalf shouted at the storm, chanting words she could not understand but they thrummed through her chest like a heartbeat. _He's battling Saruman. Wizard against wizard._ The winds howled and lightning cracked and snow blew all around them, but still she watched Gandalf. And still the hand held onto her, pulling her back every time she tried to reach out.

When the storm erupted overhead, hitting the mountain like a hammer fall, it was the cold she felt first, piercing and frozen as snow buried the Fellowship.

* * *

Legolas sprang from the snow like spring emerging from winter, easily freeing himself from the icy prison. The girl shivered next to him, tucked close by the snowpack, and he could feel her every motion as life returned to her. She punched through the snow with jabbing hands, freeing herself before he could even try to help. But she was no elf and when she tried to scramble onto the snow, she merely fell through again. He wanted to laugh, but this was not the place for such things. The elf reached forward to help her up again, but she shrugged him off, finding her feet on her own.

The veil had come undone in the storm and he could see her flush. _She has freckles_ , he mused, his sharp eyes taking in her features. Now that he knew her better, it was easy to admit she was pretty, _beautiful_ , with sharp cheekbones and full lips. She looked like a lady, not an assassin. _I assume that helped her along the way._ He cursed himself for such a harsh thought and stepped away, leaving her to her own devices.

Sakhra could feel his stare and hastily covered her face again, though the snow-covered veil was shockingly cold. The discomfort was worth it, if it kept the elf from looking at her like that. Here in the swirling snow, his sky blue eyes were hard to ignore.

The others emerged swiftly, digging themselves out of the snow. Somehow Gimli managed to poke through, though he should've been buried twice over. He looked like an old man with a white beard, but growled like a bear.

"Frodo!" Sakhra heard herself shout, more concerned for the hobbit than anyone else.

The little one waved from under Aragorn's arm, "I'm here, Sakhra," he said weakly, though the wind seemed to steal his voice away.

Sam didn't speak at all, more concerned with trying to warm his frozen fingers, and Merry and Pippin clutched at Boromir like children to their father. Their cheeks were red with cold and she knew, if they had been weaker, tears would be frozen in their eyes. Though the cold bit at her harshly, she felt the urge to tear her cloak away and give it to them. _Their poor feet._

Boromir noted her concern and met her gaze. A brief understanding passed between them, though neither wished to acknowledge it.

"This will be the death of the hobbits!" he shouted, calling after Gandalf. The wizard clutched at his hat, to save it and to give him a reason to avoid looking at his frozen company. "We cannot stay here!"

 _But where can we go?_ Sakhra knew they could not continue this road, not with Saruman ready to throw the fury of the mountain down on them. One glance from Gandalf and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

Boromir answered for them both. "Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the west road to my city!"

Sakhra wished that road were open to them. She wished it with all her heart.

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn countered, echoing the old argument. But here in the wind, with the snows falling all around, they could not argue long. Despite the man's protection, Frodo pulled his hood closer to his face, trying to block out the cold.

"We are too close to Isengard already," Sakhra said to the wind, feeling the cold grip of despair steal over her. Though Legolas heard her words, the only member of the Fellowship who could in such a storm, he didn't reply.

When Gimli spoke up, he didn't even have the heart to roll his eyes. "If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it!" he rumbled, banging his axe against the rock. It clanged like a bell. "Let us go through the Mines of Moria!"

Legolas noted the worried stare that passed between Gandalf and Sakhra, though it was fleeting. Both feared the mines and the elf had to admit, he did as well. The dark caverns of the dwarves, whether full of gems or goblins, held no love for elves. _And the depths of the world hold no love for anything._

 _Moria_. Sakhra tried to imagine the famed dwarf kingdom, but found she could not. Abandoned, lost, reclaimed – and darker than the desert night. _If half the tales are true, that place will be our ruin._

 _Tell them no, Gandalf,_ she wanted to scream, but the cold had taken her resolve. And even if she protested, she had no other suggestions. There were no other passes, not beyond the reach of Saruman. _Is there no other way?_

"Let the Ringbearer decide," she heard Gandalf say, and his voice might have trembled. The wizard did not want the burden of this choice, giving it over to the hobbit. "Frodo?"

To Sakhra, the hobbit's words felt like a cruel, cold blade.

"We will go through the mines."

* * *

The storm relented behind them, fainting with the gleaming snows of Caradhas as they made their way down the mountain. That night there were no songs, though Gimli regaled them all with tales of the dwarf kingdom ruled by his cousin. Sakhra wanted to hope, to believe that Moria would be an easy passage, but hope had betrayed her many times before. Gandalf was also quiet in thought, his eyes reflecting their small campfire like jewels, and she could hear him muttering around his pipe, though the language was strange.

"I think I'm going to lose some toes," Pippin grumbled as he waggled his feet at the fire. Somehow, they were still pink and fleshy and full of blood, not frostbite. "There won't be any snow in Mordor, will there?"

Sakhra snorted into her lean dinner. By now she was used to Pippin's foolish questions, but they never ceased to amuse her. "What part of Mountain of Fire didn't you understand?"

The hobbit flushed red as the fire, mumbling a little as Merry sniggered. "I was just wondering."

"You'll be wishing there was snow, believe me," she added, trying to take some of the weight off Pippin. Instead, she only put more on herself. The Fellowship turned their eyes on her, once again wondering about their Haradrim companion.

Aragorn looked especially interested, having only scouted the borders of Mordor himself. The land beyond the mountains was strange to him, and strangeness bred fear. Fear he could not afford. "How did you pass through the Black Land?" he said plainly, making sure to keep his tone neutral. Surely Sakhra's time in Mordor was not in service to the West, but it was a tale worth telling all the same.

 _Veil or not, you must learn to keep your mouth shut, Sakhra._ Her time in Mordor was not one she wished to relive, but as Gandalf did before, she knew whatever she could tell Frodo now would serve him later.

"The last time was for a contract, my last contract," she added hastily, remembering every detail. _Riding out from Umbar, through Ithilien and Minas Morgul, into a foul and putrid land that stank of death._ "A visiting Variag chieftan of Khand had offended the Eye's great emissary, one called the Mouth of Sauron."

Legolas didn't miss the way she shivered, thinking back to that agent of Mordor. Again, he wanted to give her his cloak, but he knew she wasn't shaking from the cold.

"I was to kill him in such a way that would send a message. To cross the Mouth was die. But my blade did more than kill – it divided." She heaved a sigh, drawing out a dagger from her belt. The wicked blade, curved like a crescent moon, was an ancient weapon of the Hasharin. Its cuts were easily identified. "A Variag chieftain dead by a Haradrim's hand meant the two nations would never unite."

"A cunning tactic," Aragorn said, understanding what she meant. "Sauron divided all beneath him, so they were never strong enough to revolt."

"Correct." With a snap, the dagger slid back into its sheath. "I was a guest of Mouth, after a fashion, and I passed through Mordor freely. They opened the gates to let me in, and to let me out." She had to scoff at that. "I doubt they will do the same again."

Though Boromir had been trying his best to hold his tongue, he couldn't hold back the words any longer. "So you've never actually stolen into Mordor? You were _invited_?"

Sakhra did not want to make a habit of explaining herself, to Boromir of all people, but she kept calm. "The last time, yes. But there were other journeys, contracts not given by the Mouth, where I was forced to," she bit her lip, searching for the word. " _Improvise._ " It was hard to forget the cliffs, the tunnels, the _webs._ "There are many paths through the Mountains of Shadow, all foul and fearsome, but I passed through. So will we."

Her words were resolute and hard, not with pride, but conviction. It was hard not to believe her when she spoke so, with her eyes alight with fire. Even Boromir felt something like awe, if only for a second.

"You must be very skilled to have done so," he heard himself admit, and Sakhra nearly fell over in shock. She could only nod, smiling brightly behind her veil. The steps between them were small, nowhere near friendship, but respect was growing there.

To her delight, Gimli reclaimed the conversation, steering back to his tales of Moria, then Erebor, the Blue Mountains and all the dwarf strongholds still standing in this age. As he spoke, his deep voice a rumble against the stars and the fire, Sakhra quietly pulled her veil away. The firelight danced on her face and her lips twitched, wanting to smile a little, but she did not. As comforting as this night was, Moria was coming it, and with it the black stretches of the unknown.

The others noticed her pull away the veil, but said nothing. It cheered Gimli to see her so and he continued speaking with great zeal, while the hobbits seemed transfixed by her appearance. Merry himself whispered to Pippin that he would marry Sakhra before all was done, while Sam blushed and looked away. Frodo was not so skittish and smiled warmly, forgetting for a few minutes the Ring around his neck. For their part, Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged a glance, noting the shift in Sakhra. They both knew that her acceptance into the Fellowship, while difficult, must come from both sides. She had to accept _them_ as well. And maybe she was beginning to.

Again, Legolas looked on her face and found her beautiful, but this time, her features could not hold his gaze. Instead his eyes trailed to the dagger and the black tattoos and her own ring, the marks of the Hasharin. They made something in him pause. Though she swore that life was gone, Legolas was an elf and had seen the many betrayals of men through his long years. He had also seen their many glories; _which one will she be?_

Truthfully, he did not know. But he could always hope.


	6. Markatars

In her years with the Hasharin and her years after leaving, Sakhra had walked or ridden many roads of Middle-Earth, but this path was unknown to her. Never had she needed to enter Moria, and never had she wanted to. The histories of that place, taught to her so long ago at the guild in Umbar, were enough to keep her away from the gates. _Markatars_ , the instructors called it. _Lost darkness._ Just the thought of entering made her blood run cold, despite all Gimli's assurances. Something, some instinct, would not let her believe the dwarf's promises.

Snow changed to mist off the slopes of Caradhas, bathing the world in a gray sheen. She could barely see Gandalf, who seemed to blend into the world like he was fading away. It put fear in her, one she didn't understand.

"We can still turn back to the High Pass," she mumbled, drawing close to the old wizard. "I do not favor this road."

Gandalf heaved a breath, reluctant to speak. She could tell he agreed, that the wizard feared Moria. And anything that frightened Gandalf was enough to send her screaming in the other direction.

"Aragorn dislikes it as well," she added, dropping her voice even lower so that the dwarf would not hear. But Gimli was busy entertaining the hobbits with tales of feasts and gems, and even Boromir seemed heartened by the prospect. "The High Pass is beyond Saruman's reach."

"So is Moria," the wizard finally said.

"There are other things to fear in the mines. Goblins, orcs, drunk dwarves-."

Gandalf chuckled heartily, and put a hand on her shoulder. Despite his age, she could feel the strength there, hidden behind the mask of an old man. "Hard as it is for you to admit, _Terazon_ ," he said with the tiniest smirk, using her new name, "I am quite skilled at achieving my goals. Even if, at first, the methods cannot be understood. Moria is part of our path now, dark as it may be. Just like the Hasharin were part of yours."

His grip tightened on her, sending a tiny shock of warmth through her still cold bones. It heartened her, chasing away her fear. She exhaled a little, hoping the terror would disappear with her breath. Most of it did, but the little that remained, the tiny tremor, feared for Gandalf the Gray.

"Gandalf-."

"A necessary darkness on the path to light," he said, and the words were final. With surprising speed, the old wizard stepped away from her, leaving the Haradrim girl to stew in her thoughts. "Frodo, come and help an old man," she heard over the distant sound of a waterfall. It took only seconds, but Gandalf was gone from her side.

 _Necessary darkness. The Hasharin were certainly dark, but necessary?_ She thought on them for a good while, remembering long years of brutal training in everything from swordsmanship to history studies. Beyond that, she remembered where she would be without the guild, where her life would have led. The auction block. A harem tent. And the headsman's axe when she inevitably tried to run away. _And certainly I would not be here today, a guide to the Ring, part of the weapon that will tear down the Tower and kill the Eye._ _A necessary darkness indeed._ She felt like a sword, born in fire and trial, beaten early to do greater deeds later.

But in spite of Gandalf's words, her hands still trembled as the sheer cliff rose above. _The Doors of Durin_. A black and narrow lake was all that lay between the Fellowship and Moria now, and mist swirled on a surface still as glass.

"The Walls of Moria!" Gimli gasped, looking upon the rock face like a pilgrim would a god. He hastened them along, his little legs outstripping them all in his haste to meet with his kin. Night had fallen by the time they reached the far side and clouds rolled in, blotting out the moon. Again, Gandalf seemed to fade into the darkness all around.

As they approached, careful around the water's edge, Sakhra's hand strayed to her arm. She counted the tattooed bands, remembering their meaning, and it calmed her a little. Legolas noted the gesture, how it seemed to relax her features. He wished for something like that, a symbol or talisman to ease his fears. Then he remembered the bow at his back, hard and firm and lethal in his expert hands. _That will do._

Gimli reached the cliff face first, his smile bright beneath his beard. He tapped against the rock with his axe, listening for an echo that would never sound. "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed," he said proudly.

The wizard came up beside him, running a hand along the Doors, searching for anything that might open them. "Indeed, their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Legolas scoffed, more concerned with his bow than the wretched Doors. It was in perfect order, as usual, but gave him an excuse not to bother with thoughts of Moria.

"Be sure to let me know the next time you carve a kingdom out of a mountain, Master Elf!" Gimli shouted back, his axe in hand. The words were harsh but his eyes were not, having steadily lost their disdain for the elf.

Sakhra smirked, amused by the gentle ribbing, but forgot all could see her face now.

"Stop that right now, Sakhra Shakastar!" he said, pointing his axe at her. "I'll not abide the smirks of you both!"

 _Shastaskar_ , Legolas thought with an amused grin. _Her name is Shastaskar._ And she was smirking terribly, a crooked little thing that could infuriate Sauron himself.

"I think I'll go back to wearing a veil," Sakhra muttered, crossing her arms in an attempt to look cross, but Gimli dismissed her with a wave of the hand. "And if you're going to get my name wrong, I'd rather you call me something other than Drunken Dagger."

"Wait until we're feasting deep in Khazad-Dum – we'll all be drunken daggers then, eh?" the dwarf chortled and banged his axe against the rock again. "Then we'll see how fair the elf can be, with a belly full of meat and mead!"

Legolas looked almost sickened by the thought, but Merry and Pippin were certainly not. They looked up from their packs, mouths full with their usual snacks. "Dinner, supper," Pippin almost moaned, his thoughts dancing with food and ale.

But their merriment was brought to an abrupt end, as Gandalf stepped back from a section of the cliff. He raised a hand to the sky and the clouds rolled away, revealing the moon. Impressive as the action was, it was not his grand trick, not by far.

"Ithildin," he murmured, as glowing white lines appeared in the rock. The metal glinted fiercely, outlining the famed Doors of Durin. Mirroring only starlight and moonlight, it was invisible before, but now stood out bright as day. There was even an inscription over the flowing curves, written in Elvish of all things. "It reads, 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter.' Simply, if you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open."

Sakhra found herself holding her breath, not wanting the Doors to open, but also not wanting to stay here in this gloomy valley any longer. So when Gandalf spoke a command aloud, his staff against the rock, she bit her lip. _Nothing._ The Doors didn't budge. Another command. _Nothing._ Another. Another. Another. _Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

She was not a stranger to Gandalf's eccentric ways or his sporadic memory, but this still grated on her nerves, as well as everyone else's. Gandalf was most irritated of all and even snapped at Pippin, though the pestering hobbit may have deserved it. He continued muttered and pushing and clapping his hands together, but nothing seemed to work. The Doors would not open.

It was no surprise when Gimli sat down, plopping himself on a rock to patiently await the mines of Moria. Merry and Pippin quickly followed, fiddling at the edge of the lake, while Sam made himself useful and unloaded Bill the pony with Aragorn. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed them send the pony off, letting him wander away into darkness. It all felt terribly final.

"So this is the path we have chosen," she murmured to herself.

"We were forced this way," the elven prince replied, coming to stand beside her. "By fate and circumstance. And Gimli's incessant grumblings."

"If Boromir and I can put aside our differences for the good of the quest, surely you can go a bit easier on Gimli?" Indeed, she and the Gondorian had not bickered since Caradhas, and his usual glares had ceased all together. Though, to her dismay, it seems he was redirecting them at Aragorn. Thankfully, the man had a calmer temper than she and kept quiet.

"Should Moria be all he says it is, I will not quarrel with him again."

She wanted to smile, but his words gave her no comfort at all. "You fear the mines as well."

"I did not say that," he returned sharply. Weakness was not something he liked to display, not in front of anyone, particularly the Hasharina.

"Elves don't make promises they can't keep. You know the mines are a dark path."

Legolas pursed his lips into a line and hesitated, before nodding slowly. His sharp ears dimly registered the slosh of water somewhere, but he ignored it. "Sharp shadows wait for us beyond the Doors. Nothing good will come of this way."

"Then _say_ something! Tell Gandalf-."

"You fear it too, _you_ told him so, and still we continued on to this necessary darkness. My words will not sway him if yours can't."

Sakhra wanted to argue, to tell him that he was an _elf_ , a being with skills far greater and better regarded than hers, but the words died away. _Necessary darkness._ "You were listening to our conversation?"

His eyes flashed to hers and the lightest blush, barely visible in the moonlight, colored his pale cheeks. "I hear most things said in this Fellowship, whether I wish to or not."

"Did you _wish_ to hear a private conversation?" she snapped, feeling anger flare within her. Legolas did not miss the sparks behind her eyes and took a tiny step back. Human or not, the Hasharina looked downright dangerous.

"I meant no disrespect." Another slosh of water, Aragorn's voice. And Boromir, watching the elf and the woman argue but again, Legolas pushed it all away. "I apologize."

Sakhra hated apologies. She hated giving them and she hated getting them. It made it that much harder to hold onto her anger, the only thing in the world she could rely on. _The nosy, eavesdropping elf!_ her mind shouted. _With his stupid snow-walking, never cold, never tired, never needing to rest._ Her eyes widened and anger melted into fear. _Rest._

"You heard the names," she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper.

 _The names._ Legolas heard them all, whispered in the night. Sometimes he even stayed awake to hear her say them. It didn't take a genius to know what they were, or why they plagued her. _She remembers the dead. She remembers the blood._ And one name echoed above all the others. She repeated it sometimes, over and over again, until her eyes would snap open to wake her from some terrible dream. _Farzane._ That name was her own personal ghost.

The elf did not want to lie, but he did not want to speak either. She didn't need his voice to hear what his body was saying as he shifted, uncomfortable under her gaze. _He heard the names whispered in the night. He knows they haunt me. He knows my heart is corrupted, by blood and memory._

Before she could _beg_ him to keep quiet or attack him for eavesdropping or both, the grinding sound of stone on stone drew her eye. Frodo stood before the open Doors, a triumphant look on his face. Clapping loudly, Gimli sprang to his feet with the enthusiasm of a child and took her by the arm. He dragged her away from Legolas, away from the blue eyes that knew her nightmares.

"Soon Mr. Elf," Gimli called over his shoulder, beckoning him to follow them into the darkness. "You will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves!"

But the air inside the Doors was cold, stale and smelled faintly of sweet decay. She resisted the urge to raise her veil, even if it meant blocking out the stench. But Gimli didn't seem to notice, pulling her deeper in.

"Roaring fires!" It was dark as night, with not even torches to light the chamber beyond the Doors.

"Malt beer!" As she drew breath, Sakhra could taste death on the air and it made her head spin.

"Ripe meat off the bone!" Something snapped beneath her feet, cracking like dried wood.

She jumped back, almost colliding with Legolas, but the elf deftly held out his hands to stop her. One glance between them was all it took to know they shared a thought. _This is wrong._ The others felt it too, their shadows tense and ready. When Gandalf raised his staff, illuminating the chamber, it took only half a heartbeat for her to draw her sword.

Corpses and bones littered the floor, all of them peppered with hundreds of black arrows. All dwarves, all dead, all rotten.

"This is no mine!" Boromir said, his sword in hand. "It's a tomb!" He threw out his free hand, meaning to push back Merry and Pippin, who eagerly stepped away. Frodo and Sam went with them, backing away to the Doors with shocked expressions.

But while they retreated, Gimli rushed forward with a roar like a battle cry. It quickly faded into a yell of torment as he examined the nearest dwarf corpse. "Nooo!" he wept, and the sound made Sakhra want to scream.

She tightened her grip on her sword, watching the shadows for any sign of threat. With Aragorn and Boromir at her back, she felt no fear. And the moonlight still streamed in, beckoning from the world outside.

"Goblins!" Legolas snapped in distaste, throwing away one of the black arrows like it had burned him. He notched an arrow to his bow with blinding speed, falling into step with the other warriors.

Boromir's voice echoed off the walls, rumbling through the stone. "We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here!"

Nodding wholeheartedly, Sakhra bent to grab Gimli by his mail, pulling him away from the body. He still roared, protesting, but allowed her to hoist him to his feet. They turned together and the open door ahead looked so inviting, so beautiful.

Until Frodo fell to the ground, a slick, muscled _thing_ around his ankle, dragging him out into a world that was just as cruel and dangerous as the one they stood in.

The hobbit screamed, his hands scrabbling on the stone as he tried to grab at anything, but the watery beast was too strong for him. It dragged him to the lakeshore, meaning to take him under, but Merry, Pippin and Sam were there first, their tiny swords ready. Sam jabbed, cutting Frodo free for a brief moment, until a score of tentacles exploded from the water. The tentacles tossed the hobbits back and grabbed at Frodo again, pulling him right off the ground to dangle precariously over black and foaming water.

An arrow sang past Sakhra's ear, hitting home in the tentacle's gray flesh, but it did not let go. She didn't bother to wait for the second arrow, and charged into the water with Boromir and Aragorn. Her blade danced, spinning in curving arcs as she cut through the forest of limbs, all thick as a man and slick with water and something more nefarious. They chopped like axmen, but the tentacles kept coming, forcing them to dodge and weave in the water. She found her rhythm quickly, like a performer remembering a dance. _Step, swing, step, swing, step, swing._ Always moving closer to Frodo as he was passed from tentacle to tentacle, still high out of their reach. She could hear the hobbits yelling on the shore, but adrenaline drowned them out. Her training had taught her intense focus, to perceive only what she needed, and the skill served her well. More arrows passed with blinding speed, so close she felt them ripple the air, but she never faltered.

On the shore, Legolas found his own dance, falling into the lethal art of archery. He was a prince and the bow was his kingdom. The creature, the Watcher in the Water, made the lake splash and foam like a pot on the boil, but his eyes stayed sharp. Soon the tentacles looked like pincushions, bristling with his arrows. They were not enough to loosen its grip on Frodo, so he turned his gaze on his friends in the water, all hacking and chopping with little regard for themselves. Every time a tentacle emerged, lashing out at Aragorn or Boromir or Sakhra, he let an arrow fly, saving them from Frodo's fate. He paused only for a moment, to watch Sakhra spin her heavy sword like a wheel, using its own blinding momentum to slice through skin and muscle. _That sword could cut through bone_.

But her sword and Aragorn's and Boromir's didn't seem to be enough as the creature dragged Frodo farther away, towards the whirl of water spinning in the depths of the lake. When a monstrous head emerged, its jaws wide, Legolas didn't hesitate and put an arrow in its eye. In that same moment, Aragorn sliced through the tentacle holding Frodo and the hobbit fell through the air. Boromir was there to catch him and Sakhra covered their escape, her blade dancing again. She slipped as they ran from the water, her boots sliding over the lakebed, and for a second Legolas felt time slow. The creature was still coming, a rage of tentacles and water, pulling itself out of the lake towards the Fellowship.

He felt his legs moving, his bow singing, as he put another arrow in its head. The creature moaned and slowed for a moment, but that moment was enough for Sakhra to right herself. She scrambled after the others, sprinting for the Doors with tentacles on her heels. Legolas shot as many as he could, watching with wide eyes to make sure she was clear of the foul thing.

"Run!" she shouted, watching him notch another arrow. _The fool means to guard my escape._ A slick tentacle brushed her cheek but she sliced it away with a deft spin of her sword. " _Legolas,_ run!"

Her hand closed on the leather strap of his quiver, pulling him along with her as she sprinted into the strange safety of Moria. Legolas nearly yelped, so taken off guard by her action. Under other circumstances, he would have been offended at being dragged around like a dog, but the watery demon was still roaring and still advancing.

The elf managed to fire one last arrow before the Doors of Durin closed behind them, shattered by the strength of the Watcher. It plunged them all into bone-chilling darkness, with nothing but the sound of their own breathing and the steady drip-drip of water. Legolas could still feel the warmth of Sakhra's hand, even through his tunic, but she quickly drew away. Despite the darkness, his elf eyes could see her plainly and what he saw surprised him.

She sheathed the sword quietly, second-nature to her, and though the hobbits were shaking and scared, she didn't tremble. _What did you expect from the Hasharina? Tears?_ he chided himself. She was an assassin, a warrior, but she didn't react like Aragorn or Boromir or Gimli either. All three converged on the hobbits, counting them in the darkness, but Sakhra did not. Instead she bowed her head, lips moving without sound, fingers drawing a crescent on her brow – she was _praying_. And when she raised her head, eyes wide, Legolas felt like she could see him staring, even in the darkness.

"We now have but one choice," Gandalf's voice rang out, echoing off the rubble. He knocked his staff against the ground and light exploded from it like a star. "We must face the long dark of Moria."

All, even Gimli, heaved a grim sigh. Sakhra wanted to turn around, to tear at the rubble and dig herself out of this bleak hole, but she knew that was impossible. This was a necessary darkness, a lost darkness. _Markatars_.

 _Necessary darkness._ It weighed on Sakhra like a stone, like the tattoos she wished she could remove, like the names she wished she could forget.

 _Like the Ring_.


	7. One Of Many Masks

_A four day journey to the other side_ , Gandalf had said. _Four days in the dark._ Even in the desert, even in _Mordor_ , there was the light of the stars or the fire of orc camps, but no such thing penetrated here. Only Gandalf's staff illuminated the way, and it was weak, casting monstrous shadows across the stone. The ruins of the dwarf kingdom twisted all around, a testament to the deep evil that rested here. Sakhra could feel it on her skin, in every breath, always waiting on the edge of Gandalf's light. She kept a hand on her sword, never lessening her grip on the ebony hilt. The other rested in her leather jacket, closed around her Hasharin dagger.

She was tense as they moved through Moria, even as the hours passed with nothing more than shadows to follow them. Legolas wondered how a human could stay so vigilant, never relaxing for a moment. His own senses hummed a warning at every corner, but he was an elf. He was made to watch and to wait. So when Boromir slowed his pace, dropping back to accompany Sakhra, he felt himself tense. A shouting match was the last thing they needed here, but the shouts never came.

"You favored my plan, didn't you?" The Gondorian's voice was low, barely a whisper, but Legolas could still hear him.

Sakhra glanced at him, surprised by his quiet, almost gentle tone. "I would favor anything next to this," she said, gesturing at the black mines. "And the western road would save us many troubles. The Rohirrim would aid us, and your people would as well."

He nodded, heartened by her words. "Indeed. My father would welcome us with open arms and many feasts."

"Careful, you're starting to sound like the dwarf." To her delight, Boromir smiled at the jibe and nodded.

"We are both simply proud of our people."

She felt blood flush in her cheeks, though the air was damp and cold. "You have every right to be. The Men of Gondor fight bravely, and against many dangers." _I used to be one of them._ She knew Boromir was thinking it too, and fighting against the urge to say so. "My people are a brutal kind, Boromir. No one knows that better than I."

_Their spears are sharp, their armor thick. And the mumakil are warring mountains._

"And you left them." His voice echoed further than she wished, and a few heads turned, but no one spoke a word. In that moment, she wished she could disappear into the dark. "You left the assassins and your people."

" _Onsatara_ ," she murmured to the shadows, remembering her most vile name. "I betrayed them. I betrayed the blood." And even though her actions were good and righteous, she still found it in herself to be ashamed of them. _I betrayed the only ones who ever loved me. The ones who saved me from the slaver's tent. The ones who gave me purpose. I betrayed them all._

Somehow, Boromir of Gondor felt pity for the Haradrim woman as he watched shadows and sorrow dance across her face. The feeling swelled deep within, in a place long forgotten since the Ring came to his thoughts. "You cannot betray what is already wrong," he said, tentatively putting a hand on her shoulder. Her muscles were tense beneath his touch, and hard as bone. "You chose a better path. And when we reach Gondor, my city will open its gates and you will pass through freely." He knew the laws of his land. He knew her kind was forbidden. And when he returned to Minas Tirith, he intended to change that. "The city will sing at our coming and even Sauron will tremble. For we have the Ring, and we can defeat him."

Sakhra put a hand over Boromir's and marveled at the strength she felt there. But she remembered his face on the mountain, and the hunger in his eyes. _Would he be strong enough to resist?_

She certainly hoped so. "Thank you, Boromir."

Though neither would admit it, Boromir, son of the steward, and Sakhra, the Hasharina, became friends deep in Moria. Somehow, they brought light to that darkness, lifting the last veil of unease from the shoulders of the Fellowship.

But Sakhra never eased the grip on her sword or her dagger. For her, the shadows were too close to forget. Still, the passage seemed safe, broken only by slipping hobbits. Everyone kept an eye on Pippin, who proved very adept at falling, particularly near high ledges.

"The Haradrim leash their children during sandstorms," Sakhra chuckled when Pippin fell again, this time far from the cliff edge. She hoisted him up by the collar, righting him on his feet. "Perhaps we should adopt the practice?"

Pippin scowled and stuck his tongue out at her, which she only laughed at. Aragorn chuckled as well, his deep laugh rumbling in the darkness.

"At least we outnumber the hobbits now," he said, "Try taking all four of them from Bree to Rivendell alone."

"Not alone, Strider," Sam reminded, thinking back to the attack at Weathertop and the elf woman who saved Frodo. "There was that elf maiden who helped you."

Frodo nodded along, though he barely remembered the ride of his life. "She evaded the Ringwraiths, all nine of them."

Sakhra did not miss Aragorn's forced shrug or the way his eyes darkened. "She did, indeed." _Elf maiden_ , she thought, remembering what she saw on the bridge. _Kiramir_. And then, through the folds of Aragorn's collar, Sakhra noticed something winking like a star: a white gemstone, a necklace. _A woman's jewel._

"She must be quite the warrior, to have faced the Nine riders alone," Sakhra murmured, enjoying the uncomfortable way Aragorn squirmed. As much as he tried to hide it, she could see the layers of his hard exterior peeling away to show what lay beneath. Not the ranger, not the heir, but the man. Flesh and blood and a beating, loving heart. _We are all men beneath our armor_ , she knew, and to see it in Aragorn, in one so grave and skilled, gave her a strange kind of hope. And, if nothing else, teasing him gave her a reason to smile in this darkness. "Would that she had come with us."

Aragorn hoisted his quiver higher on his shoulder, if only to avoid the clenching feeling in his chest. Just the thought of Arwen accompanying the quest made his blood chill, though it ran hot again when he saw Sakhra smirking in the shadows. Legolas saw it too and wanted to laugh aloud, but did not, for his friend's sake.

"Are you missing female company, my lady?" Gimli chortled, throwing a look over his shoulder.

"Not at all, Master Dwarf," she said, "Just the smell."

The rowdy jeers of menfolk echoed off the stone, and even Gandalf admonished her for her 'impertinent cheek', as he called it.

* * *

They came to a split in the path, with three arches each leading away into a different darkness. Sakhra barely noticed, more focused on searching for Orcs, and bumped into Aragorn's back when he stopped walking. She opened her mouth to ask why they were standing still, but Gandalf answered for her.

"I have no memory of this place," he said gravely, his eyes searching the arches like they held some kind of answer. But an answer never came.

Though she wanted nothing more than to stand, to watch the path ahead and behind, Sakhra's legs finally began to protest her constant vigilance. Long hours in the dark, walking over hard and jagged stone, had taken their toll. When she settled down on an outcropping of rock, she had to clench her teeth to trap in a sigh of relief. The hobbits were not so veiled and smiled at the prospect of rest, as did Gimli. It wasn't long before were sifting through Sam's food stores, pulling out pieces of bread and jerky to share.

Aragorn simply drew out his pipe, content to sit and smoke with Boromir at his side. There was a heavy silence between them, the kind that settles when words want to be said, and it made Sakhra uneasy. Boromir was the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, a man who was king in all but name. Now he sat next to the man who would be king, a man he had insulted and distrusted not so long ago in Rivendell. _His opinion of you has changed, surely he thinks differently of Aragorn as well?_ She wanted to believe that, if only to calm her already pounding heart. _This place does not agree with you, Onsatara._

The elf was no comfort either, constantly standing, still as a statue, his sharp eyes fixed on the craggy fissures all around. She wondered if anything ever snuck up on him, and wanted to be there when something did.

When his gaze moved, shifting from the shadows to her own face, she nearly jumped in her skin. Only her Hasharin training kept her from reacting, though no lesson ever taught her how to stop her face from flushing.

_She is strange_ , Legolas thought, watching as she dropped her eyes. Her movements were quick but fluid as she busied herself, laying her sword across her knees. He remembered the blade cutting through the Watcher with smooth, dancing motions like he'd never seen before. In truth, her fighting style seemed more Elvish than anything, especially in comparison to the strong, hard, hacking Boromir or Aragorn's flawless swordplay. Though he knew a few words and some of their histories, the Haradrim were a great mystery to Legolas. Only tales of the Hasharin, the ancient guild of assassins, ever held his attention as a young elf. And now he walked with one of them, sharing camp and fire with such strange myth. He had so many questions for her, but now was not the place for them.

The familiar smell of pipeweed told Sakhra that Gandalf had settled in, ready for long hours of muttering and thinking. She wanted to poke at the old wizard, perhaps prodding him into one of his more wizardly fits. If it meant moving on, she would gladly accept his rage, but this was not a place for such things. Now they must sit in quiet, longing for the sun and the wind and the dream of the world above.

_Well, now that I have some time_ , she thought to herself, and let her hands stray to her hair.

Legolas couldn't help but feel surprised when she pushed back her hood for the first time in many days. _Since Rivendell_ , he told himself, remembering her at the council. Like her veil, the hood was another comfort for her to hide in, and somehow she felt safe enough in Moria, with them, to shed it. But that was not her purpose at all, he realized, when she began undoing the long braids of her hair. In the dim light, her hair seemed black as a void, and not so long as a woman's should be. But that was to be expected. _She is an assassin, not a lady._ Still, as the braids fell into waved, gleaming rivers, Legolas could not ignore the fact that she was indeed a woman.

Her lips curled into a smile as the braids fell apart, unwinding between her fingers. She had gone so long with the braids, she'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to let them down. The relief almost made her moan, but she bit back the sound. Though she now counted herself a member of the Fellowship, a friend even, she was not _that_ comfortable.

Though Legolas tried his best to look away, he found his eyes always flitting back to her, watching as she bent and angled herself. She was so graceful, but not in the elvish way, and it confused him. _Intrigued_ him. Every movement was fluid but hard, light but full of purpose. It didn't take much effort to imagine how her hands, now untangling hair, could just as easily slit throats. Her face was a different story though. Now, with her hair down, her hood pushed back and the veil pulled away, she seemed smaller, younger somehow, even innocent. _Not, not innocent_ , he realized. _But unbound. Unfettered. Free._ In this place, in this moment, she seemed to shed the weight of her memories and her ghosts.

But it was not to last. When Sakhra began rebraiding her hair, he almost reached out a hand to stop her. _Almost._ But he didn't miss her smile fade away, replaced by the neutral expression she fell so easily into. _It is not her only mask, but one of many._

Sakhra did not understand Legolas's fascination with her hair, but she didn't want to question it either. Not in front of the hobbits, at least. Merry and Pippin would joke forever, Frodo would tease her if given the chance and Sam would follow Frodo's example. _A burden_ , she once thought of them. Between their falling and laughing and constant eating, it was indeed true. _But they are a burden I will gladly bear._

This time, she made sure the braids weren't so tight, if only to give her scalp some respite. If this had been Harad, she would braid gold wire and ribbon and mumak bone into her hair, but this was Moria and not the time for such things. All the better. Sakhra never liked the bonewear. It was too barbaric, even for an assassin.

"It's that way!" Gandalf finally said, pulling out of a whispered conversation with Frodo. He drew himself off his perch and pointed with his staff down one of the arches. The others jumped to their feet as well, Sakhra quickest of all. She could still feel Legolas's eyes, and it was not a sensation she liked.

As they fell into line again, trooping after Gandalf and down a flight of stone stairs, Sakhra's hand returned to her sword. The entire mountain loomed over them, threatening to come crashing down. Only the hobbits, still wide-eyed and curious despite the darkness, gave her any hope. _Now I understand why Gandalf brought them along._

Frodo in particular looked strangely cheerful, heartened by his conversation with Gandalf back at the crossroads. The slight smile on his face seemed to light the shadows, despite the chain around his neck and the evil it carried. Somehow, it had not taken him.

_But it will_ , the voice in her head warned, hissing in Haradaic. _It will take you all._ She bit down on her lip sharply, using the pain to drive the voice away.

"The air is lighter here," she said aloud, hoping for some conversation to distract her harried mind. "Have we found a shortcut?"

Aragorn answered from the back of the line, his preferred place in the company. "The great halls of the dwarves are not far off," he said, remembering his own travels through Moria.

"Grand as the hall of any king, and big enough to house any palace," Gimli boasted, puffing out his chest against his armor. He ran a mailed fist against the wall, along the geometric carvings that seemed to multiply as they continued forward.

Sakhra couldn't help it; the words simply slipped out. "I don't know Gimli, Rivendell seemed quite large."

In the dark of Moria, it was hard to hide any noise at all, and the stifled laughter of the Fellowship echoed loudly off the stone.

Gimli sputtered, turning over his shoulder to face Sakhra. His feet continued moving, forcing him to walk backwards. At any moment, he looked close to stumbling, but continued on with determination. "Rivendell!" he spat, "A pittance in comparison!"

"And what of the Tower of Ecthelion? It is a massive thing, guarding over my city for thousands of years," Boromir said, joining in on the game. "Legend says the tower touches the sky."

The dwarf barely paused before waving off Boromir's words. "Your tower would tremble in the face of Khazad-dum."

"The halls of my father would not," Legolas chimed in, enjoying the way it made Sakhra smile and Gimli flush. "Our trees are tall and our chambers deep."

"I'll not justify that with an answer, princeling," Gimli said, realizing that he was being baited. "See for yourself when we come to the halls."

Smiling, Sakhra put an arm around Gimli's armored shoulders. "We were only teasing, Gimli," she said. The dwarf tried his best to look angry, but found he couldn't in the face of Sakhra's rare smile.

The walls around them seemed to open, as the passageway led out to a great chamber. In the darkness, Sakhra could not be sure of its size, but it had the air and smell of something massive. She could just see a few columns in the gloom, each one bigger than the great trees of Lothlorien or the Harad jungle, all fading up into black air.

At the head of the company, Gandalf smirked and raised his staff. "Let me risk a little more light."

His staff gleamed out with surprising strength, illuminating the immense cavern almost too big to comprehend. The massive columns marched out in every direction, supporting a stone roof high above. In spite of herself, Sakhra felt her jaw drop at the sight.

"Who's teasing now?" Gimli chuckled, elbowing her in the ribs, but she barely heard him at all.

"There's an eye opener and no mistake," Sam murmured, voicing the awe the rest of them felt.

"Behold the great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf," Gandalf said, his voice echoing off the stone and into the deep darkness all around.

Sakhra could not believe her eyes, but tried her best to mask her wonder. This was a great city, yes, but a ruined one, full of shadow and danger. She needed to be on her guard, no matter how grand or how beautiful her surroundings might be. Legolas felt the same and kept his hands free, ready to draw his bow if he needed to. His eyes saw farther than any other, but still he couldn't see the far end of the hall, and it made him wary. He knew what lingered in Moria, what evil waited in the depths of the mines.

And so did the Ring. It called out, one evil heart to another, beckoning shadow and flame to come out of hiding once more.


	8. Haunted Creature

Legolas elected to take the watch, partly because he required little rest, but also because he did not want to shut his eyes in the black deep of Moria. So he stood, still as a statue, watching the shadows of the cavernous hall while the Fellowship huddled in the corner behind him. The occasional snores of the hobbits and grunts of the dwarf put him at ease, reminding him they lived, but another sound set him on edge.

_Farzane._

_Farzane._

_Farzane._

She mumbled in her sleep, her voice echoing lightly off the stone. There were other words as well, names and snatches of Haradaic too low and fast for him to understand, but she always circled back to that name again. _Farzane._

Her sleeping patterns were known to him by now, and in a few more minutes, her eyes would open, her breath quick and shallow. He was not disappointed; Sakhra jolted awake soon after. She said nothing and he pretended not to notice, if only for her comfort.

_I must speak with Gandalf,_ he told himself. Such a haunted creature would be more susceptible to the Ring and a danger to the Quest. Even against her skills with a sword, her knowledge of Mordor, that was too great a risk. _She will need to be left behind._

After Moria, after they escaped the dark shadows of this wretched place, he intended to voice his concerns to Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship. Surely they would heed his word. _The Gondorian is a concern as well_. He noted Boromir shifting in sleep, pulling his fur cloak tighter around himself. Even dreaming, he seemed to angle himself towards Frodo. _They are both a danger._ And deep down, in his heart he guarded so carefully, there was another warning. _Aragorn. The heir, the ranger, the man – my friend. Even he could fall to this foul evil, before our task is done._

But even though Aragorn was a man, the blood of a weak king who succumbed long ago, Legolas didn't want to believe it. He was so strong, so brave – if Aragorn could fall, they all could. The hobbits, the dwarf, Gandalf, himself even. _Where will this darkness lead us?_

_Necessary darkness on the path to light._ Gandalf's words, whispered to Sakhra, still echoed in his memory. _And we have not even begun to pass through it._

Sakhra's breathing calmed again, telling Legolas she had fallen back asleep. He could see her in the darkness, one hand resting on her sword. The other curled into her jacket, probably gripping her dagger. _She is ready to kill, even in sleep_. But the hobbits, Sam and Frodo both, leaned against her on either side. It was a strange sight, a Hasharina assassin flanked by such rosy-cheeked innocence. _One of the strangest I have seen._

Though the light never changed to mark the coming of the dawn, Legolas could feel it anyway. He bent to wake Gandalf first, but the wizard was already stirring. It wasn't long before the rest of the Fellowship followed, stretching and yawning and packing up their little camp. By now, the wizard had found his bearings within the mines and set off at a determined pace through the abandoned halls. More hours passed with nothing but the occasional rat skittering through the corpses of dwarves, but the elf's unease never lifted. Not until he felt the sun on his face would he breath a sigh of relief.

Sakhra's own internal compass told her Gandalf was following a relatively straight path, moving westward through the maze of stairs and columns. She found herself wishing for the days before, when they marched through the wild foothills of the mountains, even though Boromir hated her, even though many distrusted her. That was well worth the price of being above ground.

They passed through the great hall, only to find many more like it, each one grander and greater and darker than the last. But Legolas noticed the faint light ahead, spilling out from beyond a doorway.

He squinted, trying to discern the source of light, be it sun or torch. The dwarf had no such time for things and gasped when he saw the door.

"Wait-," the elf reached out, meaning to pull the dwarf back, but Gimli was stronger than he seemed.

"Gimli!" Sakhra's voice echoed off the stone, also trying to call Gimli from running into a goblin horde or a trap or worse. But he heeded none of them, forcing the Fellowship to follow.

_Worse_ , she realized, when they found Gimli on his knees, his head leaned against a pale white tomb. Sunlight beamed down, piped into the room by a deep-cut shaft. The dwarf wept openly, his words fading into broken Khuzdul in his grief.

"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin," Gandalf said gravely, reading off the runes carved into the tomb. "He is dead then. It is as I feared."

As her eyes adjusted to the light, Sakhra could see the room was filled with corpses. A battle was fought here, long ago. Blood, arrows and strangely _paper_ littered the floor, sticking to her boots.

"This was a records room," she muttered, peeling a bit of parchment off her foot. The writing on it was Khuzdul runes, a language did not understand. Behind her Aragorn examined the door, noting the broken in hinges and the battered wood.

"They made their last stand here," he said, reading the stone floor and the fallen bodies like they were a children's book. "They fought bravely, but the goblins overwhelmed them."

A weight like a stone settled in Legolas's stomach, making his feet itch to keep moving. And in three thousand years, Legolas had learned to heed his heart's warning. "Aragorn, we must move on," he said lowly, muttering to his trusted friend. "We cannot linger."

Sakhra heard his whispered suspicions and couldn't help but agree. The air of this place, a foul combination of death and old blood, was enough to make a troll turn up his nose. And the corpses, dozens of armored dwarves with axes and swords and hammers and bows, gave her no comfort. If _they_ were overwhelmed by the goblins – _we ten would fair much worse._

"How much further to the bridge?" she said, her voice higher than usually. As much as she tried, she couldn't keep the fear from making her words quiver. "Gandalf?"

But the old wizard didn't answer, stopping instead to examine an old book. He pried it from the hands of a corpse so gently, as if they were friends. "They have taken the Bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long."

_Damn the wizard and his curiosity._ Sakhra wanted to speak, to tell Gandalf to simply take the book with him he was so interested, but she held her tongue. The words were grave and they made her voice die.

"The ground shakes," he continued, his own voice a rumble against silence. "Drums. Drums in the deep."

_I can hear the drums_ , she thought, feeling them pound along with her heartbeat. But in her mind, it was not the drums of goblins, or even orcs, but the Haradrim. Their drums and horns and the thunderous march of mumakil across the ground. _Drums across the desert._

"We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark."

_Shadow. And flame._ Legolas knew of Durin's Bane, the remnant of a much darker evil still haunting the depths of Moria. And though he had lived many lives of men, fought in war, traveled in shadow, it made him more afraid than ever before. _We cannot linger_ , his mind said again. Judging by the way Sakhra's fingers twitched, her feet tapping against the stone, she agreed with him. _She feels it too, though she doesn't understand why._

"We cannot get out."

Even now, the walls of the record chamber seemed to shrink, stone on stone contracting to trap them into a shadowy coffin. _I am a daughter of the desert. I am meant to die under the sky, not in the heart of a mountain, shaded from the stars and the sand. This cannot be my end. This cannot be_ Frodo's _end._ Her eyes fell on the hobbit, now watching Gandalf in rapt attention. Fear reflected deep in his eyes. _He should be afraid._

"They are coming."

"Gandalf-," she began, meaning to stop him from saying anymore, but the word barely passed her lips before chains shrieked against rock.

Pippin flinched next to a stone well, watching as a dwarf skeleton disintegrated under his fingers. The bones clacked and shattered, falling backwards, dragging with them clanking armor and rattling chains in a maelstrom of sound. The Fellowship watched in terrified silence, shuddering as the skeleton fell, crashing and smashing down into unfathomable depths. Then went the chain and, on top of everything, an iron bucket to top off the ruckus. All of it clanged, the echo rising up to surround them like a shroud, like a doom. Sakhra thought her heart might leap out of her chest at every crash and she held her breath, waiting for the tell-tale beating of drums that would be their funeral song. But the echoes faded away one by one, melting back into silence. Still, she listened, not daring to hope. Only when Legolas relaxed, exhaling lowly, did she breathe a sigh of relief. The elf would know if danger was coming, she knew that much to be true.

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf snapped, rounding on Pippin now that the danger had passed. For his part, the hobbit flushed beet-red and looked properly ashamed. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!"

Pippin nodded sadly, his eyes on his toes. He opened his mouth to apologize, but something else cut him off.

_Boom._

_Boom. Doom._

For a split-second, Sakhra thought she was back on Caradhas, feeling the cold eat into her flesh and bone. But this was not the cold of snow or wind; it was fear _._ _Drums in the deep._

_Boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom._

"Frodo!" Sam said, pointing a shaking finger at Frodo's sword. A hint of blue glowed at the hilt, and when Frodo drew the sword, the entire blade bloomed with eerie light. Coming from an Elvish blade, that could only mean one thing.

"Orcs!" Legolas snapped, notching an arrow to his bow without so much as a thought. He had fought orcs before, more times than he could count, but never in such a terrible place. Never pinned down in a room full of blood and stone.

_Boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom._

Sakhra wanted to feel afraid, to linger in her fear, but her assassin's training pushed it away. Focus came, slowing her heartbeat, calming her mind, pushing adrenaline through her body. She felt _alive._ She felt _right. This is what I was saved for_. Her hands closed around an axe, tossing it to Aragorn as he wedged it against the door.

"They have a cave troll!" Boromir announced, drawing his head back inside. He slammed the door after him and pushed a spear against the wood. The meager barricade wouldn't do much, but it would slow the creatures enough.

_Cave troll._ Sakhra's blade killed men, orcs, goblins, but never trolls. _Larana, my sword, you will taste something different tonight._

Gimli leapt up onto the tomb, an axe in both mailed fists as he snarled. The drumming grew closer with every second, and now they could hear screeches and howls. "Let them come!" the dwarf roared. "There's one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

One glance told Sakhra the hobbits were safe as possible, all crowded behind Gandalf, with their little swords drawn. _They will have to use them, before this day is done._ Gandalf himself held his sword, Glamdring, and his staff, the deadliest weapon any of them possessed. He nodded at her, mouth pressed into a grim line. The jokes and fireworks of Gandalf the Gray were gone; he was the warrior wizard now.

The first wave of orcs slammed against the doors, making it buckle, but the old thing held firm. The orc tongue echoed on the air, yelling and shrieking, taunting them. Sakhra understood their words, as much as she didn't want to.

_"Intruders, trespassers, fiends and fools! We are coming, we are coming for you!"_

Her blade sang as she drew it, two hands closed around the hilt. It spun, once, twice, before she lifted her arms, holding the sword high above her head, settling into her lessons learned long ago. _Daggers and shadows are no use to me here. This is a battle fought plainly, like I never have before._ Boromir settled in next to her, and she didn't miss his curious glance. His own sword, a heavy thing for cleaving and stabbing, twirled in his hand.

"Perhaps the pair of us fighting side by side will confuse them," he muttered, pulling his round shield onto his other arm. There was even a shadow of a smile on his face.

Sakhra matched it easily. Now her heartbeat surged, excited by the screaming. "I'll take the right, you take the left?" she joked. "Shouldn't be much trouble."

"Bah, I'll take 'em all!" Gimli said from above them, his eyes wild with bloodlust.

A piece of the door shattered away, revealing a horrid pair of eyes. Then a Mirkwood arrow pierced between them, killing the beast. Legolas drew another arrow, his eyes never leaving the door. His focus was almost unnerving, but a comfort all the same.

Aragorn's own bow sang, picking off orcs through the steadily crumbling door. When it bursted inwards, unleashing the full fury of the horde, the first wave fell, peppered with arrows. But the next, and the next and the next were too many for archers alone.

_It has been long years since I fought like this_ , Sakhra thought, remembering back to the guild and the training circle, when she was just a scrawny sixteen year-old girl against twenty. Every day she lost, and every day she came back to fight again, until one against twenty were even odds.

The first orc that came within her reach lost its head, her blade slicing clean through flesh and bone. Then she stopped thinking entirely, letting her muscles make the decisions. _I am the Sand Shadow, and I move like the storm in the desert, blowing through everything in my path._ She dipped, ducked, twisted and turned, her blade always finding the neck or the stomach or the big vein in the leg, leaving a trail of blood and innards behind her. Her leathers, already blackened by travel and wear, now glistened with the black blood of orcs and goblins.

She could see the Fellowship out of the corners of her eyes, all of them fighting as well or better than she. Gimli was a little ball of destruction, hacking and chopping through the orcs like a woodcutter through a forest. Judging by the hollow sound of cracking skulls, Gandalf's staff was doing well, and Boromir's shield clanged against armor, shattering bone. Aragorn darted across her vision, his long sword dripping blood, while Legolas leapt onto the landing surrounding the room. From this higher point, no one was safe from his arrows.

He fired with abandon, leveling orcs like they were targets on the range. Occasionally he turned his glance to the hobbits, meaning to protect Frodo, but Sam and the other two were doing that nicely. Their little swords were sharp and deadly, stabbing at any orc that made it past Gandalf. And Gandalf himself stood behind Sakhra, Boromir, Aragorn, and Gimli, the four warriors who were more like a wall. For the briefest of seconds, his gaze lingered on Sakhra and her flashing sword. The heavy blade, thicker than any he'd seen, seemed at home in her hands. He noticed that she fought brutally, mercilessly, every motion cutting through the largest veins and arteries. Even the orcs she left standing wouldn't last long, bleeding to death as they tried to keep fighting. _She is Hasharina, and she is trained to kill._

The cave troll had almost gone from her mind, but the rumble of approaching feet could not be mistaken. When the beast smashed through the door, it sent orc and goblin flying, and it roared like a mumakil. There was a chain around its neck, but it didn't need to be led any longer. It had found them.

She ducked under a wicked orc blade with ease, then called over her shoulder. "Surround it!" She could almost taste the troll blood now, and to her surprise, she liked it. Many of her guild were like that, collectors of death, killers of trolls and wargs and the many creatures of the earth, but she never was. Man was her prey. _But I can always make an exception._

"Sakhra, hold to the line!" she heard Aragorn yell back, trying to keep her in place. Their line of warriors was working, keeping the hobbits from any real danger, but the hobbits, even Frodo, even the Ring, was quickly fading from her mind. Now there was only the kill, fulfilling what she was raised to do.

But before Sakhra could break the formation, the troll did that for her, stumbling forward with its club. Legolas's arrows seemed to sprout from its stony flesh, but did nothing to impede the beast. It smashed Balin's tomb and the warrior line, leading the horde of orcs in its wake.

The battle descended into nothing more than chaos, where every breath and every swing of the blade could be your last. _This is more familiar._ She maneuvered herself through the fray, dancing towards the troll, needing to wet her blade with its black blood. It saw her coming and swung its club, but she slid beneath it with a smile. But before her blade could slash, the troll stumbled back, clutching at its collar. On the other side, she could see Aragorn and Boromir pulling it along by the chain, trying to bring it down. She wanted to push forward, to cut at the troll as it stumbled, but two figures at her back made her spin, blade high.

Frodo and Sam stared back her, their swords and, strangely, Sam's frying pan, tucked close. A dozen orcs rushed at the pair, shrieking about wanting to taste children's flesh. Their words made her forget the troll for a moment, and she screamed back at them.

" _I will drink your blood before you touch them_ ," she roared in Orcish. Though the words scraped and stung her throat, she enjoyed the taste of them. Their own language, shouted back from a human woman, made the orcs pause long enough for her to attack. Arrows followed her onslaught, cutting down the ones she couldn't.

When she turned back around, Sam and Frodo were gone, clambering onto the landing to outrun more attackers. She moved to follow, but a groan made her turn her head just in time to watch the troll throw Boromir into a wall. Legolas drew the beast away, his arrows drawing its focus, but orcs chased down the fallen man, and Sakhra followed. She cut down as many as she could, but one reached the Gondorian, his blade raised to kill. And then it fell back, a ranger's dagger in its neck. _Aragorn._

Boromir's dazed eyes found the ranger through the chaos, wanting to thank him, but Aragorn nodded him off. Then he felt Sakhra's hands on his arms, pulling him back to his feet. _Two enemies made friends_ , he thought dimly, letting her right him.

She patted his shoulder firmly, watching his eyes clear. "All there, Boromir?" In the heat of battle, she had to remind herself to speak the common tongue. But the crack of a chain against stone made her turn, forgetting the Gondorian.

_Legolas._ The elf was _playing_ with the troll, darting back and forth to keep its attention. It whipped at him with its chain, cracking stone beneath its blows, but the elf didn't even flinch. When it struck out again, the chain wrapping around a column, Sakhra could barely believe her eyes. Legolas darted along the thin chain, until he stood astride the troll's shoulders. He fired arrows two at a time directly into its skull, but the thick bone held firm even against the Mirkwood bow.

"Jump!" she heard herself shout, though the elf hardly needed her help. He leapt to the ground, dodging the troll's hands, and landed easily on his feet. The troll strugged, momentarily chained to the column, and the elf spared a glance to the Hasharina.

Her face was spattered with orc blood, and the oily liquid ran off her blade in rivulets. Somehow, it didn't make her look foul or dirty. It seemed to suit her. _Child of death_ , he remembered.

Sakhra wanted to hold his blue-eyed stare, but the battle still raged, and her blade still thirsted. She charged at the troll, but it snapped its chain before she could attack, and a wave of orcs kept her from advancing. One or two came too close for her liking, but arrows always cut them down. Gimli fought his way to her side, and to her surprise, his hacking, chopping style matched her nicely. She sliced over his head and jumped over his arcing axe, fighting back to back with the dwarf.

"Tell the others to take a rest, we have this handled," the dwarf chuckled through the bloodshed. Sakhra grinned, tasted blood on her lips, though not her own.

But a scream above the rest turned her heart, and fear finally spiked through her defenses. "Aragorn! Aragorn!" _Frodo._

The troll had the hobbit pinned, and was dragging him out to crush him. Before Sakhra could react, Aragorn was there, a long spear in hand. And then the man was smashed against a column, knocked out cold. Her legs moved without thought, pushing herself across the room.

To her shame, her thoughts were not of Frodo in that moment.

_The Ring. It must not get the Ring_.

But the spear thrust was like a hammer fall, slamming Frodo back against the wall. The troll grinned and laughed deep in its throat, watching Frodo gasp for air. Merry and Pippin leapt, their swords high, and began stabbing.

A strange quiet settled over the chamber as the last orcs died, leaving only the troll. The others bit at it, prodding the beast towards death, and Legolas waited, bow in hand. He struck at the precise moment, arrow digging into its throat.

She heard the death rattle as the troll drew its last breath, but didn't care at all. Instead, she skidded to a halt next to Aragorn, now clutching at Frodo. Sam was there as well, his tears cutting tracks down his dirty face.

"No," Aragorn murmured, moving to turn over Frodo's corpse. But instead of wide, dead eyes, he found a hobbit still alive. Mithril poked out from beneath his shirt collar, a kingly gift that saved Frodo's life.

Cool relief flooded through Sakhra and she slumped against the column, letting the stone support her. The battle was done and her adrenaline faded, soon to be replaced by the dull aches, bruises and cuts that littered her body. Her quivering fingers drew a crescent against her forehead, a silent prayer of thanks for her own survival – and Frodo's.

But the war was only beginning. More shrieks and screeches echoed from the hall as another horde approach, this one bigger than the last. _We must run now._

Gandalf stood tall, his eyes darting to the door. "To the Bridge of Khazad-Dum!"

She sprinted like she never had before, running with the Fellowship for their very lives. Once she dared look back, and felt the urge to pray. Then Legolas passed by her, running like a deer through the forest, and a very different urge took her. _I would knock that elf over if time permitted_ , she thought, wanting to see him stumble if only once. And she begrudged him his appearance, still clean and smooth as the day they left Moria. In comparison, she could feel her face sticky with blood and dirt while her braid was coming undone.

But she still had her sword, and that was all she truly cared about. _This might be our end, Larana,_ she thought as the orcs closed in, surrounding them in the shadowed hall of stone.


	9. Shadow's Fall

She could almost feel the hot breath of goblins and orcs and all the foul creatures of darkness chasing at her heels, trying to trip her up and devour her. But she didn't turn around to attack; no, that would mean being left behind by the Fellowship. Instead she gripped her sword tight in one hand, her dagger alive and bright in the other. Soon both blades would taste blood. _And soon we'll meet our end_ , she thought dimly, seeing the thousand glittering eyes leering out from the shadows.

They stopped as one, feet skidding over stone, forming a protective circle around the hobbits. Gandalf's staff did little to lift the darkness, but Sakhra could plainly see their foes had them surrounded with no way out. She did not fear death, having broken that human habit long ago in the guild of Umbar, but the screeching words of the orcs made her shiver. They sharpened their knives and licked their lips, eager to eat the hobbits one by one. The others were just as affected, clutching their weapons close. Only Gimli seemed completely unafraid, raising his axe high as he roared at the circle of enemies.

Legolas notched an arrow to his bow, ready to land the first blow in a battle that would certainly be his end. But something gave him pause, a deep tremor moving over the stone, an evil even the shadows seemed to run from. He felt it before the orcs, just as Gandalf gritted his teeth. The wizard knew this darkness better than him, but still Legolas understood what had come, rising to kill them all.

When the orcs shrieked, fear rippling through them, Sakhra barely caught their words. _Durin's Bane_ , they howled, crawling and skittering over each other in an attempt to escape. They disappeared into cracks and shadows, leaving the Fellowship alone in the great hall. But even her human ears heard the grating sound, and her eyes saw the dull red light bleeding through the columns, moving closer by the second.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir murmured to Gandalf, his eyes on the shifting shadows.

 _Shadow and flame_ , Legolas thought, lowering his bow. A fearsome thing, an enemy they could not fight. _We must run._

Sakhra had accompanied Gandalf over many paths, through shadow and shade, and never had she seen him so affected. It put a fear in her, one her assassin training could barely control. _Gandalf will lead us_. She took comfort in the thought. _Gandalf will protect us._

"A balrog," the wizard said. "A demon of the ancient world."

 _Balrog._ The word held no meaning for Boromir, nor the hobbits, but it fell on Aragorn, Sakhra and Gimli like a storm. Even the hearty dwarf lowered his axe, feeling fear poke through his armor. Aragorn put a hand on his sword, but Gandalf stopped him with a glance.

"This foe is beyond any of you," he continued, voice rising to a command. "Run!"

It was the only order Sakhra wanted to hear and she exploded into a sprint, feeling the Fellowship match her pace. Legolas could easily outstrip them all, but she noticed the elf fall back, running with Aragorn and Gandalf. _The strongest three_ , she knew, ready to put themselves between the balrog and the Ring. Not that Aragorn's sword or Legolas's bow would be of much use against the fiery demon. She could only put her hope in Gandalf's staff, and in her own feet.

The hall ended in a shadowed passage, but a fiery red light danced on the walls as they twisted and turned down the steps. Once or twice the hobbits slipped, but Sakhra or another member were always there to catch them. Even Boromir stumbled when the stairs suddenly turned, opening onto a great red chasm. Only Legolas's quick reaction stopped the Gondorian from toppling over the side, saving him from a terrible doom.

Now the elf ran ahead, the first to scout the way, always ready to steady another member of the Fellowship should their footing fail. He looked back, always finding Frodo in the gloom, before letting his eyes trail to Sakhra. He need not worry about her balance, that much he could tell from the way she leapt from step to step, never stumbling even over the cracked and crumbling stone. The Hasharina was well-versed in agility, more than most humans.

"The Bridge is near!" she heard, echoing from the back of the line, and Sakhra turned to see Gandalf standing over Aragorn. He gestured far ahead, through the black canyon to a narrow bridge at the far side of the labyrinth of stairs.

But Aragorn didn't seem happy at the prospect, planting his feet next to the wizard. "Gandalf," he said, his voice loud over the distant roar of the balrog.

To Sakhra's dismay, the gray wizard shoved at Aragorn, pushing him away. The gesture was not unkind, but it was not gentle, and she knew what it meant. Her own feet stilled, stopping on the steps below them as she watched with baited breath.

Gandalf felt her stare and met her gaze, letting his eyes flicker between Aragorn and the Hasharina. "Do as I say!" he yelled, shouting at both of them. "Swords are no more use here."

He sounded almost broken, saying those words, and it made her cold, even in the heat of the approaching inferno. As much as she wanted to remain, to stand by Gandalf's side, the hard look in his eyes was enough to turn her away. She ran with Aragorn at her back, and the wizard even farther behind, his staff raised and ready as the stone ceiling shuddered overhead.

They rejoined the Fellowship at a wide crack in the stairs, a gap to slow their progress. Her heart raced as Legolas leapt across it, though she had no reason to fear for the elf. He was nimbler than them all; he could never fall.

Gandalf went next, leaping onto the lower steps with a swiftness not suited to such an old man. Legolas barely had to steady the wizard and quickly turned back, ready to aid the next to jump. But to his surprise, Sakhra had already made the leap, springing like a shadow across the yawning chasm below. She skidded on the stone steps but caught herself. To her surprise, she felt a warm hand at her collar, holding onto her leathers. _The elf._ He let her go as quickly as he came, moving his attention to the others.

An arrow sailed past, barely missing Sakhra's feet. "Sakhra, help them," he said, notching an arrow to his bow in a smooth motion. He fired up at the shadowed walls, his arrows finding orcs in the darkness.

Sakhra nodded, extending her arms out across the gap. The hobbits trembled, jumping back from the break even as arrows clattered at their feet. Boromir noted their fear and, after glancing at Sakhra, put his arms around Merry and Pippin.

She nodded, agreeing with his actions, and braced herself for the Gondorian to jump. He roared, leaping from the steps with the hobbits tucked close. They landed safely, with Pippin falling into her arms and Merry into Legolas's, but the stairs collapsed behind them, sending the others scrambling back from the crumbling stone.

"Sam!" Aragorn said, barely waiting for the hobbit before throwing him across the wider gap. Boromir caught him deftly, though the momentum made him stumble back. This time Sakhra took his arm, steadying the pair of them while Legolas fired off another arrow.

Across the way, Gimli backed away from Aragorn, his face a storm cloud of emotions. "Nobody tosses a dwarf," he growled, before launching himself across the gap with a mighty leap.

This time, Legolas was there to save the dwarf, catching him by the beard before he could fall back into the abyss. "Not the beard!" Gimli howled, before the elf pulled him back onto the steps.

"Better the beard than you, Gimli," Sakhra said, helping the dwarf regain his footing. But a harsh, resound _crack_ drowned out the dwarf's chuckle, as part of the mine walls sheered off, tumbling through the darkness.

It collided with the great stairway, crashing right through several yards behind Aragorn and Frodo, still separated from the rest of the Fellowship. _Frodo should have gone first,_ Sakhra cursed to herself, wincing at the thought of how eagerly she leaped ahead. _That should be me up there, or Legolas. Both of us are better at this sort of thing._

The stairs swayed, their foundations crumbling far below, and Aragorn felt the motions beneath him. He pulled Frodo close, moving both their bodies in time with the sway, using their momentum to push the stairs. With a gasp, Sakhra understood his ploy.

"Move back!" she shouted, pulling Boromir and Legolas away just as the section of stairs careened forward. "Move back!"

Legolas let her pull him, knowing she was right just as the stairs crashed together, sending shockwaves through the stonework. Frodo and Aragorn leapt forward, reunited with the Fellowship at last, even as the stairs crumbled behind them.

They ran for their lives, sprinting over collapsing stone and shadowy flame, to the bottom of the stairs where the air smelt clean and fresh. There was even light ahead, the white light of day filtering through the archway just beyond the Bridge of Khazad-Dum. But the flames grew with every passing second, pushing through the cracks in the floor and walls. Smoke swirled from every fissure, black and hot and heavy with evil.

This time she made sure Frodo ran before her, carrying the Ring over the narrow bridge to the safety of the far side. A roar screamed over the Fellowship as they sprinted, churning the air with hot breath, but no one stopped to turn and stare.

Only when she reached the other side did Sakhra think to look back, to see the foul beast of hell that haunted them. But it was not the balrog that put a fear in her, but the sight of Gandalf standing alone.

He planted himself in the center of the bridge, his staff and sword drawn and ready. And standing over him, ready to cross, crouched the most fearsome thing she had ever seen. Black with smoke and red with fire, it seemed to breath sulfur and its monstrous sword dripped hot iron. Horns crowned its head and its eyes were two bolts of flaming lightning, carrying in them all the hate of Morgoth. Wings of shadow stretched out, seeming to fill the immense chamber, and they stirred a hot wind that made even the Sand Shadow sweat.

"Gandalf!" Frodo screamed next to her, but Boromir was quick to pull the hobbit back from the edge of the bridge.

And then it was her own voice she heard, yelling in Haradaic, pleading, _begging_. " _Run, Ekelled! You must run!"_ The great control she once prided herself on was all but gone, ebbing away as she watched Gandalf stand his ground against such a creature.

"I am a Servant of the Secret Fire," she barely heard over the beating of her own heart, "Wielder of the Flame of Arnor." He raised his staff and glowing gem at its tip seemed to create a sphere of light around him.

In response, the balrog twirled its sword, singing the air with its terrible blade.

"The dark fire shall not avail you," the wizard roared, goading the balrog, doing what no man or elf or dwarf could. "Flame of Udun!"

Its sword moved in an arc of fire, crashing down on Gandalf, but his light held firm, protecting the wizard from the demon. She wanted to yell, to run, to fight, to scream, but instead stood frozen to the spot. This was Gandalf as she had never seen him, a wizard, a warrior, greater and more fearsome than them all. Under different circumstances, she would be impressed, awed, but now she could barely breathe.

The balrog's sword shattered, falling away into the dark chasm below, and Gandalf almost laughed aloud. "Go back to the shadow."

With a crack like lightning, the balrog drew its next weapon, a flaming whip that snapped and sizzled in the air. It sniffed at Gandalf, scoffing at the wizard, before taking one terrible, clawed step onto to the bridge.

 _We are all doomed_ , she thought, seeing the beast unfurl itself.

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" His voice was thunder and his staff lightning, slamming down against the bridge with a blinding flash of light to split the darkness.

But the balrog did not turn away, instead putting another foot forward. And therein was its doom.

The bridge cracked beneath its feet, crumbling into the dark abyss of Khazad-Dum. Gandalf stared as the demon fell, clawing at the air, trying to fly, trying to escape, but it was too stunned, too affected by the wizard's power to save itself.

Sakhra wanted to cheer and shout, to hoot out the victory cry of the Haradrim, but the desire quickly died.

The whip curled around Gandalf's ankle, tugging him down. His sword and staff fell into blackness, never to be recovered, and the wizard, the Gray Uncle, Mithrandir, her friend, clutched at the edge of the bridge with old, slipping fingers.

Again, Frodo screamed, fighting Boromir tooth and nail. She felt arms close around her the moment she moved, tugging her back into a hard chest. Haradaic fell from her lips like blood, screaming and cursing and begging.

" _Let me go to him. Let me help him!_ " She could barely see through her rage. " _Ekelled!_ "

Gandalf met her eyes through the gloom, before his gaze flickered to Frodo. _He is saying good-bye_. Her heart clenched in her chest, almost stopping entirely to hear the wizard's last words.

"Fly you fools," he whispered, before sacrificing himself to save them all.

* * *

She didn't remember running up the steps, dodging arrows from the last few goblins, or even the first gasps of fresh air they found outside Moria in Dimrill Dale. Only when Legolas loosened his grasp did her memory return, rising up to meet her as she fell to the rocky ground.

Gimli was shouting , roaring to go back into the mines. She almost scoffed at him, but could not find the strength. _What good would that do?_ Pippin sobbed somewhere, that much was easy to hear, and then she had no more use for sound. Her world closed, fading away into something she could understand.

Shaking fingers drew the crescent on her brow as she said the familiar words, thanking her gods for her life. And then she put her hands to her eyes, pressing against the lids while she cursed the heavenly beings for committing such evil. For taking Gandalf from them. It felt good to scream in her head, to use her language in the dark way it as meant to be spoken. She only wished she could scream it aloud, to carry out her own traditions of mourning. _Fire, blood, tears, all of it to help him pass. But we have no time for such things._

Legolas did not understand this hollow feeling, this utter sorrow left in him. He had seen death before, but not like this. Not a friend, not a guide, not a _wizard_. And the others were so affected, so entirely broken. _How can we carry on now?_ His thoughts darkened to something far worse. _Who will die next?_

He stayed close to the Hasharina, having almost carried her out of the mines himself. She fought him, leaving bruises and cuts across his pale skin, somehow finding a strength even as she raged. He didn't need to understand her words to understand her pain. And now, watching her pray, watching her fight the instinct to scream, it made him even sadder.

Tears made her dark eyes swim, flickering in the waning light of afternoon, and he expected to see them fall. Instead, she used whatever strength she had left to push away the pain. To his dismay, to his sorrow, he watched her draw the veil back across her face, retreating into the mask she once donned.

"Sakhra, don't," he heard himself say as he took a step towards her. When her eyes flashed to his, the words died in his throat.

"Don't tell me what to do," she hissed, rising to her feet in a smooth motion. She stalked away with motions smooth as a cat, but he could see the tightness, the tension squaring her shoulders like she was in physical pain. _Maybe she is._

Night was coming, she could feel it, and with it all the dangers they had faced in Moria. Maybe more. Far off, she heard Aragorn shout her fears. Of course, Boromir argued, and she met his eyes over the weeping ruin of their Fellowship.

The Gondorian noted her veil and deflated. Her grief was so great she couldn't bear to show it, even to them. And somehow even she knew they must leave this place.

Her hands closed under Merry's collar, pulling him to his feet as gently as she could. He tried to hold onto Pippin but the younger hobbit shifted away from his friend's grasp. "We must be moving," she murmured, reaching down to help Pippin as well.

"It's my fault," the little hobbit choked, his face a ruin of tears. "I did this."

The Hasharin side of her had to agree, but that side was smaller than it once was. Instead, pity filled her heart. "No, Pippin," she said, crouching down to face him. "No, this was our path from the very beginning." The realizations came as she spoke, remembering how Gandalf had looked at her, how he had tried to guide Frodo. The darkness in his eyes never lifted. "Gandalf's passing is a necessary darkness on our path to the light."

Passing on wisdom that was not her own, wisdom that was _Gandalf's_ , felt so wrong. But it seemed to cheer Pippin if only a little, and that was enough for her.

Frodo was another matter entirely. When Aragorn called him back from the rocks and the hobbit turned, Sakhra knew his hurt was deep, maybe even deeper than her own. He did not weep – he was in too much pain for that. The deep wells of his eyes, usually so alive, were fearfully blank. On other day, in another time, she would have tried to comfort him, but found she could not look on him long. He looked just like she felt, and she did not want to think on her feelings. Not now, maybe not ever.

"Come, Gimli," she said quietly, returning to the dwarf's side. His jolly demeanor was gone, replaced by the same rage and sorrow she saw at Balin's tomb. But this was somehow worse.

He put out a hand, grasping her arm in a way that seemed to steady her, like he was some kind of anchor. Strangely, she felt the urge to pray again. "Dark are these days," Gimli said, casting a longing look back at the mountains. "Once those halls held warmth and light, and now they hold only death."

 _And they will forever more._ Sakhra swore then never to pass underground again, never to take dwarf mine or goblin tunnel. She would never let the sky be veiled from her by rock and stone.

"We go to Lothlorien now," she replied, hoping the thought of another Elvish kingdom could cheer her. But like Gimli, the prospect of the woods held no comfort. She wondered if anything ever could again.

Legolas noted the way she clung to Gimli, and the way the dwarf answered back, using her as his crutch. The elf felt this sorrow of Gandalf's passing, but his immortal self was not so open as them, and his pride, his elvish nature, would not allow him to grieve so openly. _Her veil does the same for her, hiding her, masking her. Would that I could do the same, instead of standing apart._

With Gandalf gone, Aragorn took up the mantle of leading the Fellowship, with his grave eyes and a hard voice that had them all moving again. To the untrained eye, he looked unaffected by Gandalf's passing, but Sakhra noticed how he looked back. Always staring at the gate of Moria, straining to see a gray cloak against gray rocks, waiting for the wizard that would never join them.

The hobbits were quiet after that, their laughter and cheer dying with Gandalf the Gray.


	10. Bruise

The rocky slopes of the Misty Mountains quickly faded into the green meadows of the foothills. A golden haze clouded the eastern horizon, catching the slanting light of late afternoon. The breeze blowing through was sweet and ghostly, tinted with the power of the elves and the kingdom ahead.

Sakhra could smell it even through her veil and the pleasant scent almost made her gag. _Gandalf is dead. Nothing can ever be sweet again._ But she could not let her grief eclipse the quest or dull her mind. There were dangers everywhere, in the shadow of Lothlorien and even within.

As the Fellowship passed into the woods, letting the gray trees and golden leaves swallow them up, she paused to look back one last time. Dimrill Dale and the mountains beyond were shrouded in the shadow of dusk now, just like her heart.

Legolas had to consciously resist the urge to push her veil away, if only to see the face beneath, so he could try and understand the Hasharina. There was pain in her eyes, yes, but a carefully guarded one, the kind pushed away and hidden. He didn't doubt her memories, her sorrows, were all crowded at the back of her mind, waiting to explode and ruin her. That they could not allow. _For the good of the quest,_ he told himself. _For the quest._

He remembered her sharp words on the mountain, the second time she had snapped at him since their meeting in Rivendell. These words stung the most, like a deep bruise. He could still feel her grip on him, her nails, her kicks and punches as he dragged her out of Moria. Though he was an elf, they would still take time to heal. One of them even ached still, a bruise on his chest where her fist hit him. Without thinking, he let a hand trail to the bruise, feeling the hurt there, and the pain even deeper beneath, in his heart.

"I struck you," she murmured, falling to his side. Her words were eaten up by the wind and the rustle of leaves, but Legolas heard her.

"You were not yourself." It was the truth, and a harsh one. _If she can lose herself in such moments, to see nothing but rage and blades, what might she become in the dark days ahead?_ But he chased the thought away by focusing on her eyes, on the sharp fire still burning behind her grief. "You owe no apology to me."

Behind her veil, her lips quirked into a rare smile. "Do you hear me apologizing, Prince?"

His own eyes danced, pleased that her wit was returning. "I do not. But if you do not cease calling me 'Prince', I shall have to make you."

"There are more bruises where that came from," she said, pointing towards her chest with her chin. But her words held no threat, or at least as little there could be, coming from an assassin. "Legolas."

"Four months since Elrond's council and finally you call me by name," he said, amused by the notion. "And I thought elves were slow to act."

_Four months. It seems like a lifetime._ "Haradrim are slow to trust," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "And Hasharin do not trust at all."

When his blue eyes flashed to hers, she felt a sensation like lightning in her fingertips. It pulsed in her bones before fading away, replaced by the dead weight of Gandalf's absence.

"But you are not one of them anymore, Sakhra," he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear him. The trees seemed to muffle everything, from their footsteps to her own heartbeat. "You are not," he said more fervently, like he was assuring himself as well as her.

She drew a heavy breath, trying to let the sweet air renew her, but it was no use. Despite the golden leaves and the sunset, there were shadows, there was sorrow, there was danger. The hobbits grouped close together, quiet for once, and Gimli kept his axe loose. Boromir shouldered his shield, casting suspicious glances all around, but always straying back to Frodo. And Aragorn's mask was slipping. The circles beneath his eyes were dark as bruises and he spoke little, for fear his voice might betray him.

_We are all haunted now_ , she thought, _by our past, by our deeds, by the wizard, by the Ring_. Memories flashed in her mind, of blood, death, Farzane – all surrounded by an awful band of gold. _And I am the worst of all._

"I am not," she said aloud, forcing what felt like a lie past her teeth.

Legolas seemed heartened by that, but she felt the ice of her old life bleeding through her. The calm, the focus, the _thrill_ , the violent fun she used to have. _And now I pay for it with this violent sorrow, with this terrible quest that will destroy us all._

She was so trapped in her thoughts that she barely noticed the arrow in her face or the ghostly elves melting out of the trees.

"The dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark," one of them said coolly, stepping forward to a position of command. He was blonde like Legolas, but more ethereal somehow, colder and far more detached from the world of men.

Gimli growled deep in his chest and Sakhra did not miss his strong fingers closing around his axe. She put a hand to his shoulder, stilling him with her touch, but his anger did not ebb away. Instead, this only seemed to draw the Lorien elf's attention away from the dwarf, to the Hasharina now standing on the doorstep of his kingdom.

The elf's eyes lingered on her, taking in her veil, her tattoos, even the little ring she still stubbornly wore. Like Legolas and Aragorn, he knew the stories, the myths and the horrible truths of her guild. She did not miss him square his shoulders, one hand grazing the dagger at his belt.

Aragorn saw it too and stepped between them, his hands clasped in a display of friendship. " _Haldir of Lorien_ ," he said in hasty Elvish, his voice pleading, " _We come here for your help. We need protection._ "

But where the Rivendell elves were quick to take them in, this Haldir curled his lip and did not respond. Again he stared over the Fellowship and this time his eyes landed on Frodo, sensing the terrible thing he carried.

" _You bring great evil with you_ ," Haldir replied, clenching his jaw against Aragorn's words. " _You can go no further._ "

Even though Sakhra did not understand Elvish, she could always tell when the answer was no. In spite of herself and her own apprehension about the elves, she felt her stomach turn to lead. _If they turn us away, there will be more danger, more death. Who will go next_?

Legolas felt an unfamiliar anger at the prospect of being turned away, especially by his kin. He was a prince of the Greenwood, the son of Thranduil, he was not one to be denied. And beyond that, this was the Fellowship of the Ring. Their quest was great, their need dire – to push them aside was tantamount to standing in their way.

" _You will let us pass, Captain Haldir_ ," the elf prince said, pushing pass Sakhra so he could face the marchwarden of Lorien fully. _I am the image of my father; now I must act like him too._

The politics of the elves was a foreign thing to her, though she understood well the governments and dealings of men. It was strange to see Legolas step forward, his voice so hard and regal as to be forged of steel. _He is a prince_ , she reminded herself. _He was born to be like this._ When Haldir bowed his head, offering the respect Legolas deserved, she couldn't help but smile behind her veil.

_"Legolas Thranduilion, welcome_ ," he said stiffly, put out by the turn of events. " _And Aragorn of the Dunedain, you are known to us as well. But the others-_ ," his voice trailed as he swept his eyes along the ragged line of weary travelers. Sakhra could feel his gaze as it passed over her, before falling back on Frodo.

Gimli finally erupted, his face reddening beneath his beard. "So much for the legendary courtesy of elves!" he shouted, "Speak words we can all understand!"

Sakhra remembered herself saying almost the same thing to Aragorn and Legolas back in Rivendell and was glad her veil hid her smirk now.

"We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days," Haldir said coolly, turning his hard gaze on Gimli. The his eyes lifted to hers. "And never has a Haradrim passed through our borders and lived to tell of it."

_That you know of_ , she wanted to say, remembering the tales of her old masters. The Hasharins of old were less than shadow, killers of elves and kings, blades flashing in the dark. No man could match them now, least of all her. But instead of educating Haldir, she steeled her jaw and pulled away her veil. It made her look less hostile and though he hated to admit it, the sight of the pretty girl beneath calmed Haldir a bit.

"I offer you no insult nor threat," she said, bowing her head even though it made her skin prickle. "And these days are strange, with strange happenings and strange allies."

"Strange indeed," Haldir murmured to himself, fighting the urge to sneer. But the wide eyes of the hobbits, of the Ringbearer, made it difficult for him. They seemed so sad and cold, devoid of any merriment as he knew no Halfling should be.

"You are sworn to protect Lothlorien," Legolas said, letting his voice soften. He approached Haldir as he would a brother in arms – indeed, they nearly were. "Our quest is to protect Middle-Earth, to protect men and elves and dwarves and all the kingdoms between, yours and mine among them."

She could see the way he shifted, if only minutely, and knew Haldir would be swayed by Legolas's diplomatic words. But still the captain hesitated, and this time it was not the Ring that held him back. In that moment, she hated herself and her skin and her swirling tattoos hard won in the south. She hated her name and her blade and wished to tear them all away, to pass through a fire to burn off her past. _But that is not to be._

"I will go around," she said suddenly, taking a measured step back from the elven guard. _You knew it would come to this. You knew there were paths you could not follow._ "It will be nothing at all for you to meet me on the other side of the Wood."

A cold stone seemed to settle in Legolas's belly, frightening him. She would be fine on the borders, skirting around to meet them at the river, but it was not her survival that worried him. _You do not wish to be parted for her._ But why, how this feeling came to be, he could not say. The bruise on his chest ached again, this time in hot anger.

Aragorn opened his mouth to shout down her offer, but Legolas beat him to the words. "You will do no such thing," he snapped, his eyes cold as winter. His tone surprised even himself, and took them all back a little. Beneath his beard, Gimli fought a twisting smirk.

But before she could puzzle over Legolas's outburst, she felt a small, warm hand on her wrist. _So small and so heavy. Frodo._ For the first time since Gandalf's fall, he spoke.

"We are a Fellowship, Haldir of Lorien, and we do not break. You aid us all, or you aid none."

The rest of the Fellowship showed their agreement, from Merry and Pippin's loud approval to Boromir's stoic nod. More than anything else, the Gondorian's support gave her strength, to know that even he could come to see her as a companion and an ally. The elf said nothing at all, to her surprise. His eyes were downcast and dark, turned inward to puzzle out some confusion she did not understand.

"Frodo speaks the truth," Aragorn said, shifting so that he faced Haldir head on. To her amusement, it seemed the man was taller than the elf. "The Fellowship continues together or not at all."

Against the steel of Aragorn's hard gaze, the elf could not quarrel. He bowed his head, letting his golden hair catch the last light of day.

"Follow me," he said, before leading them through the Golden Wood.

* * *

_I know you hear its call._

The voice was strange, barely a ghost on the wind, but surrounding all the same. It whispered through the leaves, in her ears, in her _blood._ She shifted, looking left and right, but no one else seemed to notice as they walked through the trees. Not even Legolas, who heard everything.

_Your heart is dark and full of shadow, full of want, full of fear._

She wanted to scream aloud, the shout back at the words, but bit her lip instead. _Now you're hearing voices, Sakhra? Are the dreams not enough? Has your madness finally taken hold?_ Her fist clenched around the hilt of her sword, as if her grip could chase away the voice of a ghost. But it only multiplied, until the voice was all she knew.

_You hear the Ring. You desire it, and yet…you resist. You turn away, you pull back when you must. Your heart is darker than all the rest, and yet you resist. Something gives you strength._

Up ahead, the great city of Lothlorien, Caras Galadhon, twinkled through the treetops, but Sakhra barely saw it. Her eyes were turned inward as she followed across the forest road. _Strength…I have not been strong in quite some time._

_You have many names, some fearful, some shameful. But Terazon they named you, and Terazon you shall be. A guardian of the Ring, of the hobbit, of the Fellowship…of two hearts. Your own, and another's._

Her eyes widened at that, not understanding what the voice meant. _Two hearts?_

_There is love in you still, and love will make you strong. Remember this, when the darkness truly falls. Remember love and forget who you were._

A scoff sounded deep in her throat, despite her pursed lips. _Love. I have no use for such a thing._

She expected the voice to chide her, but it faded away, replaced with the music of the elves and the muffled sound of their feet on the mallorn leaves. Without the voice, Sakhra's awareness returned and she found herself gaping at the glory of Lothlorien. All around, the massive trees reached into the falling night, their leaves crowned with crystal lights and glass-carved chambers. Stairs wound around the trunks like glittering veins, carrying elves who seemed to glow into the sky. Against the realms of men, the White City of Gondor, the port of Umbar, even the fallen fortress of Minas Morgul, this was a great sight, greater than any she had ever seen.

"They say a sorceress lives here, an elf-witch of terrible power," Gimli whispered to the hobbits, but none of them seemed to notice. They were too entranced by their surroundings, as was Sakhra.

"Not a witch, Gimli," Aragorn said. He alone kept his wits within the kingdom made of starlight, having passed here before under much better circumstances. "But a woman of power indeed."

Haldir threw a dark look over his shoulder but said nothing, restraining himself from goading the dwarf. Strange, that was once Legolas's forte, but he seemed to have put that habit aside. Now he walked alongside the dwarf, not speaking, but quietly reassuring the dwarf with his presence. The elf prince alone commanded respect here and it eased Gimli's mind, and Sakhra's as well.

"Long since I last walked this way," he said, examining the city with keen eyes. Though decades, centuries even, had passed since his last visit, it seemed the same as always. _No_ , he realized. _Lothlorien is fading. The leaves fall, the wind grows cold, and the light of the stars has dimmed. It is fading, as are all elven places of this land._ The thought put a sadness in him, one he did not want to feel.

Sakhra noted the strangeness in his eyes but said nothing, electing instead to lay a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "Perhaps one day the elves will sing of this strange company, of the Haradrim and the dwarf who braved the depths of Lorien?"

"I don't know about you, lass," Gimli chortled, patting her arm, "but they already sing songs of me back home. Gimli the Brave, Gimli the Valiant-."

Grateful for the distraction, Legolas smiled. "Gimli the Modest?" he offered. Warmth swept through him as Sakhra laughed, though the sound was tainted, reserved somehow. Still, her laughter heartened him.

To his surprise, Gimli didn't redden or anger. Instead he guffawed, stamping his booted feet. "No, Gimli the Modest is not a song they would sing of me."

"Imagine our surprise," Sakhra said, exchanging a mirthful glance with the elf. _Two hearts,_ the voice echoed, but she chased it away. "And how does Mirkwood compare to this place, Legolas?"

The others were barely listening: the hobbits too entranced with the beauty of Lothlorien, Aragorn deep in conversation with Haldir, and Boromir so focused on his own feet that he was almost stumbling from the effort. But Sakhra and Gimli waited eagerly (thought the dwarf would not admit it) to hear of the other elven kingdom.

"We elves call it the Greenwood, for nothing beneath tree is mirky to us," the prince said, happy for the conversation. Remembering home was easy and pleasant but, he realized, also bittersweet. _Anyone of us can fall, even me._

"I shall adjust my maps accordingly," Sakhra said dryly with the hint of a smile. "Though the wood was more black than green the last time I passed through."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this. "You have been to the Greenwood?"

"Once," she said, nodding. "I had need of the enchanted river water for a contract." Her body stiffened at the mention of a contract, but Legolas did not press her. He knew the river of which she spoke, one that induced slumber and forgetfulness. Often the elves tipped their arrows in such water, to bring down foes without killing them.

Gimli shouldered the burden of drawing focus away from her past, clearing his throat. "My father passed over that very same river," he said, "With your own cousin Bilbo on their journey to Erebor."

Frodo perked up his head at that, tearing his eyes away from the glittering staircase ahead of them. "In Rivendell, Bilbo told me of the river and the wood. And your own involvement with their quest, Legolas."

The slightest flush crept over Legolas as he remembered that time gone by, as well as his deeds then. "Indeed, I played my part in Master Baggins's tale."

"What weaving pasts you have," Sakhra mused, her eyes on her hands. Her own history did not intersect as theirs did, at least not on such pleasant terms.

She traced the tattoos with a glance, remembering their meanings plainly. _Bravery, boldness, skill, death,_ and a dozen other things the desert held dear. Her own _khasar_ , name rune, was tattooed down her side, hidden by layers of leather and wool, but she thought on it often. There was another name to add, though she doubted the elves were much for marking her skin.

"I fear my own only crossed with Gandalf," she added, her voice fading away at the mention of the dead wizard. She did not add that Legolas's name was in the contracts, or Aragorn's or Boromir's. That she had been contracted to kill Boromir's own father and refused.

"But that brought you here," Legolas said, noting her unease. "Your path crosses our own now. No," he said suddenly, and again the bruise on his chest ached. "Our paths are the same."

_Two hearts._

The voice returned, almost making her jump.

_One path._ _But to light or to darkness, I cannot yet say._

In the glimmer of Lothlorien, Legolas watched her face twitch and change. Her smile died quickly and she turned away. _I have offended her. I should not be so presumptuous. Her path is her own._ Internally, he cursed himself for not being so elvish as he should. Calm, quiet, slow and steady, that's what he should be, that's what he _was_ – so why did he feel himself changing?

And then he heard a voice as well, a musical and melodic voice that almost entranced him on the spot.

_Love can save you, Legolas Thranduilion,_ it said, making him shiver. _But love can kill you all the same._


	11. Dark Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I kind of just signed with an amazing lit agent and we've been doing revisions on my manuscript so this got put on the back burner. If you want updates on the story/submit little prompts or ideas or GOD LOVE YOU manips of Sakhra and Legolas, follow thesandshadow.tumblr.com!
> 
> Enjoy!

They ascended through the trees in silence, letting the music of the elves wash over them. A soft breeze plucked at their clothes and Sakhra lowered her hood, not because of the wind, but because she sensed something great and terrible coming, something deserving her respect. The twinkling lights of Lothlorien glinted in her hair, crowning her in starlight, and for a moment she looked to be an elf herself. But there was no mistaking her tanned skin, her tattoos or her scars. Even here, the fallen Hasharina could not hide.

Again, her eyes widened as they reached the crown of the stairs and the open hall of the Lady of Lothlorien, Galadriel. _Her name is not in the contracts. Even assassins are not so bold._

For the first time in her life, Sakhra felt the urge to bow, but straightened her spine against the feeling. When the elf queen descended the stairs, the Hasharina was suddenly conscious of the dirt and sweat and blood that seemed to darken every inch of her. Compared to the white lady, gleaming like a living star made of silk and flesh, she was nothing, barely a cloud of dust blowing in a storm.

The Lord of Lothlorien, the great Celeborn, was as grave as his wife was fair. His eyes looked over the Fellowship, searching for the one who had not survived Moria.

"Nine there are year, yet ten there were set out from Rivendell," he said, letting his gaze rest on Aragorn. To his credit, the man did not waver under such a weight. "Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him."

Sakhra felt her resolve weaken and her eyes fell from the mighty elves, unable to look. A now familiar pain rose up in her, taunting her with Gandalf's death. _Ekelled, the Gray Uncle,_ she thought. _My friend is dead and I could not save him._

As perceptive as she was beautiful, Galadriel read their reactions to Gandalf's name with ease and her heart wept at what she learned. "He has fallen into shadow," she murmured, letting her eyes stray to her kinsmen, the Prince of Mirkwood.

Legolas bowed his head slightly. "He was taken by both Shadow and Flame: a Balrog of Morgoth," he said, forcing as much disdain as he could into the words.

Long ago, Sakhra had learned to turn sadness to anger, and now her temper flared again. _The wizard's memory should not be one of defeat, but victory_. "And Gandalf took the beast with him," she said firmly, forcing herself to look back up. "He gave his life to kill the demon, and save us all."

"And save you he did, Sakhra Shastaskar," Galadriel answered with a look that could pierce bone. Like everything she said, the words carried a second meaning.

In her head, Sakhra heard the voice again. _But not for this_ , it said. _He did not save you to walk at the end of a line, to hunt rabbits and befriend Halflings. Your purpose is far greater, and has not come to pass yet._

_Galadriel,_ Sakhra whispered in her head, finally recognizing the voice she had been hearing belonged to such a regal being. But Galadriel turned her eyes away and did not answer, her attention now on the rest of the Fellowship.

"The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife," she said, her voice sharp and true. As her gaze passed over the Fellowship, Sakhra noted their faces changing, falling or rising based on whatever they heard whispered in the mind. To Sakhra's dismay, Boromir dipped his head, fighting tears.

_What could be wrong with the Gondorian?_ she wondered, an unfamiliar pang of sympathy coursing through her. Once he was her enemy; now a companion, a brother in arms, someone to protect and aid if she could.

Legolas's own mind was ready for the whispered words, long accustomed to the ways of powerful elves. But when her voice came, he couldn't stop the shivers from coursing through him. _Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree. Content you have lived, but beware of the sea. If you hear the cry of the gull on the shore, your heart will rest in the forest no more._

He knew of the sea calling, of the inexorable pull all elves felt when they saw the ocean. But it did not frighten him, or at least, he told himself so. After three thousand years he should be happy to leave Middle-Earth, a place of sorrow and death. But something told him to fear, something made him pause when he thought of abandoning this world.

_But if you must remain in the world of a dream, look to the sun, though dark it may seem_. And then her voice faded, leaving him with a riddle he could not possibly puzzle out.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled," the Lady spoke aloud, pulling her power back from their thoughts. But despite her words, they felt trouble indeed. Even Galadriel could not comfort the Fellowship now. "Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil."

It was the only invitation they needed. Long days in the dark and long hours in mourning had taken their toll and even Aragorn lay down willingly that night.

Sakhra was not so lucky. The haunting voices of the elves filtered through the trees, lulling the others to sleep in their makeshift camp, had the opposite affect on the fallen Hasharina. Howling sand winds and marching feet and horns were her lullaby, not these melodies. She turned on the silk pallet, chasing at the sleep she so desperately needed, but it never came. Even here, in the safest place they could hope to find, with good food and Elvish luxuries all around, she could not find it in herself to shut her eyes.

She rose from the pallet quietly so as not to wake the others, though they slept deeply. Only Aragorn stirred a little, his back against the roots of a mallorn. Still on his guard, still watchful, even in Lothlorien, even in sleep. He watched her stand through slitted eyes but said nothing to hold her back. _She needs peace more than she needs rest_ , he thought, before falling back to sleep.

Her hair fell in curling waves, now free from the usual braids that held them back. It needed a wash, and badly, so she picked her way through her sleeping companions, following the distant sounds of a gurgling stream. Elves passed on the edge of her vision, their footsteps silent over the mossy ground, but none crossed her path. They were not fearful, but cautious. Some even stopped to stare at the Haradrim woman in Lothlorien. They were all fair and pale, like Legolas, but much colder than the elf prince.

As she reached the stream, kneeling on a flat stone, she pulled off her jacket for what felt like the first time in years. The soft leather peeled away, revealing her dark red tunic beneath. The once coarse fabric was worn by the years, faded in places and stained in others, but she would not trade it for all the silk in Rivendell. She rolled her shoulders, working out the usual aches she had become used to. Now the air of Lothlorien seemed to be healing them, working through her muscles with some Elvish magic she did not understand.

There was a silver bowl nearby, and a pitcher, as someone knew her purpose there. It was nothing at all to fill the bowl and begin washing her hair, combing through the dark locks with nimble fingers. Dirt and a blood swirled in the bowl, the remnants of Moria and everything they left there. She stared at the darkened water for a long while, longer than she cared to think about, until her hair was nearly dry.

This time, Legolas took care to make enough noise so that she would notice his approach. He left his feet drag over the moss, rustling the foliage. She turned sharply, expecting to see a hobbit or a man or even Gimli, but never an elf.

"You can just say hello," she said, surveying him with a sharp eye. "You don't need to make a racket."

" _Goheno nin_ ," he replied without thought. It was almost too easy to fall into his own language here beneath the mallorn trees. "Forgive me," he added, translating for her.

She nodded, smirking at his politeness. The prince was so stiff, so proper. _He would not survive a single day in Harad – or a night_ , she thought with a blush. "Elvish is very beautiful," she said hastily, trying to distract herself from the sudden thought.

"It is. Perhaps you will learn it someday?" He paused on the bank, careful to keep a respectable distance. His hands clasped behind his back as he settled into a familiar stance, using it as a shield against her. Still, he did not miss her fluid motions as she cleaned the bowl, or pulled back her hair.

Swift fingers tied her hair into a simple, long braid. Not fit for battle, or even travel, but good enough for a calm night. "I doubt it," she answered, looking over her shoulder.

"But you have such a talent for languages." Briefly, his mind flashed back to the battle in Moria. Her voice was so sharp, so terrible, when she screamed in Orcish.

Sakhra was not Galadriel, but she could see his mind all the same. Orcish was a horrible thing to speak and it made her flush to remember it. "Orcish, Haradaic, the Black Speech, even the Common Tongue, all sharp and harsh words. I'm afraid Elvish will always be foreign to me. It's just too beautiful."

His blue eyes hesitated on her face a moment, watching a storm cloud of emotions pass over her. _Too beautiful_ , he thought ruefully.

She felt his gaze and, to her surprise, did not want to pull away from it. But she forced herself to, standing back up from the rock. The stream gurgled beneath her, carrying away the dirt and blood and the memories of Moria that would always plague her. Silhouetted against the lamps and stars, without her leather, Legolas realized she was much smaller than he thought.

"Would you have done it?" he blurted out, unable to catch the words before they spilled from him. She turned, an eyebrow raised in silent question. "Journey around Lothlorien alone?"

Sakhra scoffed aloud, annoyed. Always, Legolas seemed to think her incapable, even after what they'd been through. "I journeyed to _Rivendell_ alone. This would be nothing at all."

He waved a hand, taking a step forward without thought. "I know that, I just meant – you would leave us so willingly?"

"If leaving meant aiding the quest."

The words hung in the air, a weight on both of them. _The Ring_ rang out in both their minds. _Men are corrupted, men are weak._ He held her gaze as long as he could, surprised by the steel and sorrow he found there. _Gandalf was her strength_ , he realized, _Gandalf was her own guardian, against the demon inside._

She did not like the way he was looking at her. _Pity_ , she screamed in her head, recognizing what it was behind his eyes. She despised pity in all its forms, even when she was a girl at the guild. She was a slave who became the sand shadow; she did not deserve pity. With a huff, she walked past him, back towards their camp.

The elf was quick to follow on silent feet but she could feel him there, just out of reach. The Hasharina was a mystery to him, a mystery he doubted he would ever solve. He fixed his gaze on her collar, on skin he had never seen before. Black tattoos swirled there in patterns he did not understand, but he knew they told her story, spelling her name and her deeds for any Haradrim to see.

_Why does he plague me so,_ she asked herself, fighting the urge to spin around. Sakhra was a woman of the South and so she understood the ways of men, but this was no man at all. Legolas was an elf and she did not understand him at all. _He thinks me a child, a burden, a passing breath in his long life._ Not at all like her thoughts of him. _When I am old I will tell others of this quest, how I walked with an elf prince and a future king and the Ringbearer._

_But Hasharin do not grow old_ , her mind scolded. _Hasharin die young and die well. And as much as you may run from them, that fate is still your own._

The thought did not sadden her. If anything, it was a reprieve. _Besides, I will have no one to tell my tales. Not a husband or children. I would have no one at all._

Legolas stopped short next to her, his steady feet making no noise at all. Still she was painfully aware of his absence after a moment, and turned around. He stared, not at her, but through the trees, towards their camp. His brow furrowed, lips twitching into a scowl.

"What is it?" she said, wondering what could possibly be wrong in such a place.

His expression soured at the voices filtered through the trees. "They are bickering again."

She did not need to ask to know. _Boromir and Aragorn. The others would not argue, not now._ "Again?"

"Could you not hear them? They argued every step of our flight here, from Dimrill Dale to the eaves of the wood."

"I suppose I was preoccupied." Her eyes dropped, remembering their mournful flight from the mountains. A dragon could have fallen upon them and she would not have noticed, she was so wrapped in her grief.

Legolas chided himself for forgetting her pain, almost cursing aloud. "Yes, of course. I'm so sorry-."

But she took it in stride, forcing a smile to placate him. The elf was always so careful around her and it was infuriating. "Besides, I do not have the ears of elves, Legolas," she added, reaching up to tap one of his pointed ears without so much as a thought.

The action froze them both, locking the pair in a sudden stillness broken only by the wind and distant singing. His eyes widened, surprised both at her boldness and the strange sensation he felt coursing through his body. It was like nothing before, both cold and warm, a shock that seemed to curl into his soul. She recovered first, though not before pulling away from him with blinding speed.

She forced a laugh, trying to cover up her own discomfort and unease. Like Legolas, her actions had shocked her. "Begging your pardon, that was very Haradrim of me," she said, blaming her heritage. In Harad, such a touch would not even be acknowledged, but here, in this place, with _him_ …she knew it meant something else entirely. And perhaps she preferred it that way.

Legolas's white smile returned as he recovered, also taking a small step back. To his surprise, it took a great effort to do so. "It's quite fine. If the flicking of ears bothered me, I would not have joined the quest."

He expected her to joke with him again, to let her wit surface, but that would not be. Instead, she began walking again, this time in bleak silence. Her hands closed around themselves like she had to forcibly hold herself back from touching him again.

"I'm curious to know more about your customs in the South," he prodded. Indeed, the South was curious to him and Legolas always enjoyed learning about new cultures. But also he wanted to hear her voice again, and that desire outweighed anything else, no matter what he told himself.

She sighed, grateful for the change in conversation. "There's not much to tell, really. We are loud and harsh and most of us take delight in whatever we will."

"Most?"

"Slaves are not so lucky as the free men of Harad." There was a sharpness to her words, but no regret. No shame, to her own surprise. _Legolas can be trusted_ , she told herself. _I have nothing to fear from talking to him._

Though the others might have ignored her brief slips in conversation, Legolas remembered them all. He collected the tiny pieces of her past like a miser with his jewels. "And you were born a slave," he said, and there was anger in his voice.

"But I will not die one," she said evenly, without much bite.

_You will not die at all_ , he answered in his head, even though it was not something he could promise anyone. Even himself.

"Feasts are different in the South," she continued, "They last for days, sometimes weeks, until the food and wine gave out. Then hosts would chase their guests from the hall or tent to find another party to laze through."

Legolas smiled at the thought, imagining his royal father doing the same thing after one of his own famed parties. "It sounds like you know this firsthand."

"No man ever chased me away," she said, allowing herself a pleased smirk.

_I can understand that._ "You stayed behind to kill them?"

Her breath hitched a little as the memories came swirling back. Of bed and blades, she'd had her share. The pure prince, on the other hand, she assumed he knew nothing of that. "Among other things," she murmured. Her eyes met his, brown on blue, in a gaze that spoke more than she wanted to say aloud. She expected to see judgment in his eyes, but it never appeared.

The Hasharina was a haunted woman, Legolas knew as much, but now he understood how deep her hurt went. How much she had done, and how much she had given for her old life, to the people who gave her purpose. It made him feel sick.

"The guild trains us so well," she muttered, speaking quickly now in an attempt to explain. "To obey our leaders, to honor our contracts. A Hasharin will do anything to achieve their goals. That's how I earned my name."

_You owe me no explanation_ , he wanted to say, but it never came. "Shastaskar?" _Sand shadow._

She shook her head ruefully and her hand strayed to her side, to her name rune. "It is not a name I tell many, least of all wide-eyed hobbits. It is a terrible thing, a stain upon my conscious. And I should not say it here, in such a pure place."

"Very well," he said, doing his very best to keep himself in check. It was all he could do to keep from comforting her, though he knew it was not what she wanted. "Haradrim can lose names as well as gain them. I know that much. And I'm sure you've done enough to lose that one."

A breath of air escaped her in a relieved sigh. "I have lost a name before, actually, but that was long ago. _Tarsin Kaa_ , the Scorpion Queen. When I first earned my ring and was awarded contracts of my own, I used poison to kill, not steel. Darts, tipped arrows, a bit of powder in a cup. I kept my hands clean. But as I grew used to death, my weapons changed. The sword became my own, and then the dagger."

His eyes strayed to her belt, to the dagger that never left her side. Even here, it gleamed with a wicked light. "The dagger is an intimate way to kill."

When her eyes met his, he felt the shivering sensation again. But this time he did not enjoy it. This time it made him afraid, afraid for her, and for himself.

"I killed intimately," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. But Legolas heard and Legolas understood.

The camp loomed ahead now and they could see the hobbits – and hear Gimli – sleeping soundly. Aragorn and Boromir were just shadows in the trees, both arguing with words she still could not hear. The stockier shadow, Boromir, turned and stalked away, disappearing further into the wood, while Aragorn returned to camp. He glanced up to see Sakhra and Legolas returning, and allowed himself a tiny, tight smile at the thought of them.

"I think I should speak with Boromir," Sakhra said, her eyes trailing after the Gondorian. "His mood troubles me."

Legolas nodded, though body felt oddly tight at the thought. The man troubled him as well, enough to make him uneasy about leaving him alone with Sakhra. But he was wise enough not to disagree with the Hasharina, or to try and hold her back. "Strange as it sounds, I think you might be able to talk some sense into him."

Her laughter returned, this time pure and true like the ringing of silver bells. "Is that strange because of my skin or because I have no sense of my own?"

He smiled to himself, not stupid enough to answer such a question, and gestured with a flick of his head. "Go on then."

But her smile did not last the moment, fading into her usual mask of controlled features. Her eyes though, her eyes were bright with what looked like fear. "Legolas, I must ask – this conversation-," she stammered, for once at a loss for words.

Again, Legolas fought the urge to step forward. Instead, he stepped back, hands clasped together, listening to the harried beating of her heart.

"I won't speak of it. You have my word."


	12. Strong Will And Cold Water

She stepped lightly over Gimli's legs, passing over the snoring dwarf in her attempt to get through their camp. Aragorn caught her eye and understood her purpose. He shook his head slightly, trying to warn her.

"He needs to be alone," he murmured.

"No," she replied, not stopping for a moment. "He needs someone to understand."

And understand she did. The Gondorian felt the call of the Ring and wanted it for his own. In her deepest heart, Sakhra knew she felt the same. If the moment came, would she be strong enough to resist it? _Would he?_ The thought frightened her more than orcs or trolls or all the shadows of Mordor. Falling to the Ring, turning on the Fellowship they fought so hard to protect…that would be the worst kind of doom and she did not want it for anyone.

Like a shadow, she faded into the trees, disappearing after Boromir in a whisper of leaves and fabric. Legolas watched her go and reminded himself that she was safe here. No harm would come to her beneath the boughs of Lothlorien. _Or anywhere else, for that matter. She is no defenseless maiden._ He reminded himself of that daily, but still it was difficult to let her out of his sight.

After a moment, he noticed Aragorn was staring at him, his gray eyes cold with accusation.

" _What?_ " Legolas asked in Elvish, crossing his arms like an offended child. He returned his gaze with equal steel, calling on the memories of his father on his throne.

But Aragorn did not quail; instead, he seemed to tighten. " _Dangerous ground, my friend._ " There was a sadness to his words, a pity even. " _I know that all too well._ "

Legolas had to resist the very human urge to roll his eyes and settled for turning away. " _My concern is for the Quest and nothing else_ ," he replied icily, careful to keep his voice low. He had never spoken to Aragorn this way, not in all their years of friendship, and it stung him to be so sharp. But somehow Aragorn's riddled warning had burned him, an insult as much as advice. _I am not Aragorn, and Sakhra is not Arwen._ Just the thought made his muscles tighten. _My concern is for the Quest_ , he repeated in his head, as if the words could make it true.

The ranger watched his friend grapple with himself, but said nothing. _Three thousand years old and he still cannot lie_ , Aragorn mused to himself. Under different circumstances, he would have laughed, would have given Legolas his blessing and support, but these were evil times. Even his own romance with Elrond's daughter, a love he would mourn the rest of his life, was sacrificed for the good of all. Legolas would have to do the same, killing any feeling he had for the Hasharina at the root. And the sooner, the better, before they blossomed into something to strong to destroy.

"Legolas-," he began, taking measured steps towards the elf prince, but Legolas stopped him with an outstretched hand.

"I understand your worry, my friend," Legolas said, his voice softening with every passing moment. It was not a lie. If he came to _feel_ for Sakhra, if he let himself care for her above the Quest, it could spell ruin for them all. That was something Legolas could not allow. _And it is not a danger_ , he whispered in his head. _She is a friend. Barely a friend. Nothing more._ "You have nothing to fear."

Against the echo of elven singing, under a sky made of starlight, it was easy to believe the prince. Legolas would not lie, it was not in his nature. But as Aragorn settled back against his tree, ending the conversation, he still felt uneasy. _Love changes all men_ , he thought, before slipping into shallow sleep.

After watching over camp for a while, Legolas felt strangely cold, his limbs heavy with an exhaustion like he'd never known. So many days without rest had taken their toll, even on an elf, and he surrendered to the feeling. He took great care as he prepared for his much needed rest, making sure to drag his pallet as far away from Sakhra's as he could. When he shut his eyes, she still had not returned, and it made him uneasy.

 _Love can kill you all the same_. The voice echoed in his head again, a prayer barely remembered in his slumber. That night he dreamed of roaring waves, white birds and a dark sun that gave off a warmth he could not understand.

* * *

Boromir's tracks were too easy for her to follow. The big man blundered through the undergrowth with abandon, crushing leaves and snapping branches wherever he went. She spotted him after a few minutes of walking, noting his rich purple shirt against the gray-green world of Lothlorien. He stared at the river, sitting on a stone that jutted out over the water. The far bank seemed made of shadows and, though they were deep in Elvish country, Sakhra did not let her guard drop.

"I could smell you coming," Boromir said aloud, not bothering to look at her. His voice trembled and for a brief moment, Sakhra wondered if she was right to pursue him. "Haradrim have a distinct scent."

She made sure to keep her distant, giving the man the space he so sorely needed. "Sandgrass," she murmured, knowing what he meant. "It's in the tattoo ink, though most don't notice. I suppose you fought enough of us to learn to recognize the smell."

"I am a soldier. Knowing my enemy wins battles and saves lives." Finally, he looked over his shoulder. To his surprise, he felt some relief at the sight of her. Without her leathers or her sword, with her hair loose, she was not so threatening as usual. He could almost forget her heritage and her history. "I made a study of the Haradrim in my youth, when the tribes used to cross the Harnen in great numbers."

Slowly, she took a seat on the rock, letting her legs dangle over the edge. "I remember those days. I was just a girl in Umbar, but I remember. Mumakil hordes attacked Gondor, without mercy." To her dismay, she felt herself flush and wished for her veil again. "Haradrim do not fight with honor."

"No, they do not," Boromir replied, his voice thick and low. "But then, men are not honorable to begin with."

Her eyes met his sharply and she saw the anguish there, the tortured soul he was trying so hard to hide. "You cannot mean yourself, Boromir."

Though he never spoke the words, she heard them clearly. _I do._

"I can feel my control slipping away," he murmured, turning back to the river. He tossed a few smooth stones into the water, watching them sink into darkness. "I was a good man before this Quest, a son of Gondor."

"You are _still_ a good man," she said firmly. "And in that is your weakness. And mine." Next to her, he tensed, muscles straining against skin and silk. "We are human. The Ring affects us first. Even Aragorn would be hard pressed to turn from it, should Frodo offer. It wears on me as well, like a stone in my heart." The words were difficult to say, but for Boromir's sake, she forced them out. "You are not alone in your struggle, Boromir."

"But I am the farthest gone. It bewitches me with every passing hour, pulling me closer to a person I cannot become." He shook his head, his bronze hair pale in the moonlight. _Like a crown_ , she thought. _One day when Aragorn is king, Boromir will be his steward, and all this will be so far behind us._

"You still have the strength to turn away, Sakhra," the Gondorian murmured. "I fear I do not."

In that moment, she wanted so much to embrace him. In Harad, it would even be expected, but she was no quite sure how Boromir would take the gesture. Instead, she settled for a hand on his arm, her grip firm as she tried to pull him back from the dark ledge.

"You think you are so far gone, Boromir?" she breathed, forcing him to look at her. Slowly, she rolled up the sleeves of her tunic, revealing the snake-like lines that spelled her name and deeds, her whole life. "Look where I have been. Look at what I was."

His eyes grew round, examining the tattoos with a mixture of awe and fear. Scorpions, snakes, curling bones and black wings, words in harsh Haradaic, the symbols for bravery, stealth, death, blood, the triple band of the Hasharin, and pearly scars, it was all there for him to see. Her skin crawled beneath his gaze but she forced herself to stay still, to let him look. If it would save Boromir and preserve the Fellowship, she would do it a hundred times.

"I killed my first at fourteen. I put a snake in a man's shoe and I watched the venom take him," she murmured, her mind protesting at the dark memory. Back then, she was proud of herself. Now she felt only shame. "Since that day I've filled more contracts than I can count and killed more than I care to know. I was a murderer, a liar, a thief, a traitor, the worst of every kind. You know what I was, you know where I come from, and you know I turned away."

"You covet Sauron's Ring – I was Sauron's own blade from time to time," she said harshly, trying to make him see. "So do not tell me you are not strong enough to resist."

She expected him to hate her again, to judge her as she deserved to be judged, but instead of pulling away, Boromir leaned forward. Their shoulders brushed and a warmth spread from him, chasing away the cold. He sighed deep in his broad chest and to her surprise, he nodded.

"You're right. I can be strong." He shifted, pulling something into his lap – a white horn edged with gold. _The Horn of Gondor._ "I will be strong, for all our sakes."

"That's all I ask," she replied, nudging him a little. "Not too much, is it?"

Boromir's laugh was deep and hardy, shaking the air. "Nothing at all, my friend. So long as you promise to do the same."

 _That is a promise I cannot make_ , Sakhra thought. She learned long ago never to make promises she couldn't keep. But for Boromir, she forced a smile. "I promise," she lied, letting him pull her to her feet.

* * *

The next morning, it was the birds that woke her. White and beautiful and almost as melodic as elves, the creatures serenaded the Fellowship from every treetop. Sakhra wondered if Galadriel sent them herself, some kind of avian alarm to rouse them.

Legolas was already awake and packed, his bow slung over his shoulder once more. He perched on the roots of a great tree, marveling at the feel of the bark beneath his fingertips. The tree's life pulsed in time with his heart, calming him before they would set out again. Sakhra noted his strange ritual with narrowed eyes. _Elves_ , she thought with a shake of her head. It was nothing for her to pack up, now well-accustomed to being on the move. The others were not so quick, especially Gimli who snored right through the birdsong.

She toed him with her boot, nudging the dwarf's head. In return, he snorted awake, one hand reaching for his axe.

"Careful, Gimli, I don't fancy losing a leg so early in the day," she chuckled, before moving on to help rouse the hobbits. They were awake but loathe to leave their blankets. Only Frodo prepared himself in a timely manner, though he was strangely quiet and thoughtful, even for him.

Sakhra wanted to press the hobbit, to inquire after the shadowed look in his eye, but she kept her distance. The infernal thing around his neck was always waiting, beckoning to her like an old, seductive friend. _I will be strong_ , she told herself, remembering her conversation with Boromir. The man seemed to be thinking the same, as he busied himself with checking and re-checking his weapons. No matter how foolish he looked, she was glad to see him making such an effort.

"You do not sleep much," Aragorn murmured, appearing out of the trees behind her. He had been up for hours, having already taken counsel with Celeborn and Haldir.

"Neither do you," she replied, crossing her arms at what felt like an accusation. "I assure you, I am well rested."

"Your rest is not what concerns me." His eyes flashed at Legolas, still bent over the tree, and Sakhra followed his gaze.

Confusion clouded her eyes. "Speak plainly, Aragorn, if you have something important to say."

His jaw tightened. This was not the place for the words he wanted to say, especially with the rest of the Fellowship so near. He hoped Sakhra would understand but… _She has no idea what I mean._ But then a darker thought came to him. _Or she does. She knows and does not care._

At the sound of sharp, low voices, Legolas turned over his shoulder, only to see Aragorn and Sakhra with their heads bent together. Just by the tight set of her shoulders, her crossed arms, he knew it was a conversation she did not enjoy. _Much like what I suffered last night._ Deep in his bones, he shivered. _Aragorn had better mind what he says to her._

But he had no reason to fear. Haldir appeared on the edge of their camp, a few of his scouts in tow, before Aragorn could press her further. In the morning sun, the Marchwarden of Lothlorien seemed crowned with light, but his eyes were hard and dark. To an outsider, he would seem cold, hostile even, but Legolas understood. Haldir wanted nothing more than to protect his Lady and her realm, and that was an honorable endeavor.

"My Lady is waiting for you by the river," he said, addressing them all with a sweep of his eyes.

Sakhra was not so understanding of elves and their mannerisms. She followed begrudgingly, falling back to walk with Gimli, the only other companion who did not seem entirely bewitched. Though Lothlorien was beautiful, something about it made her uneasy, even sad. And sadness was an emotion she could not afford. She told herself it was Gandalf affecting her so, the memory of the wizard in every swirling cloak and every gray tree. But deep in her heart, she knew the reason. Though she had never been to Lothlorien before, she knew it felt empty, smaller, less grand than it once was. Abandoned homes and overgrown paths dotted the forest, speaking of a fuller time. _They are leaving. The elves are leaving._

Her eyes fell on blonde hair, on an intricate braid she had come to know so well these past few months. _They are leaving_ echoed again, hollow words to shiver her bones.

Elves came to see them pass, lining the way to the Great River. All of them were ghostly and fair, like white statues in still salute. They look neither happy nor sad to see them go, but Sakhra saw the light in their eyes. They were _proud_.

"I apologize for my behavior earlier." Haldir's voice caught her off guard. _I am growing tired of elves sneaking up on me_ , she thought with an inner smirk. "You gave me no cause to mistrust you."

Sakhra couldn't help but snort, turning to face the Marchwarden as he appeared next to her. Gimli grumbled by her side, muttering in Khuzdul, but quieted him with a firm hand. Slowly, Sakhra shifted to match Haldir's pace, breaking off a little from their procession.

"I gave you great cause," she said, gesturing to herself. With her jacket securely back on, the tattoos were hidden again, but the marks were still there. "I look like a Hasharin assassin and I travel with the Ring of Power. You were allowed your precautions."

Haldir nodded a little, his cold façade melting. "Very well, but I still wish to apologize."

"Accepted," she said, bowing her head in Haradrim custom. Haldir returned the gesture before putting a hand over his heart in the Elvish fashion. His smile was small but genuine, betraying the kind heart beneath his cold exterior. "Might I ask, Haldir, what convinced you to approach me?"

His smile faded a little and the elf glanced ahead, his eyes falling on Boromir's massive frame. "I was on patrol by the river last night," he muttered, dropping his voice so only she could hear. "I did not intend to overhear but -."

"Of course," she said, her teeth a bit on edge. "I suppose I should know better by now. You elves are always listening."

Haldir quirked an eyebrow at her, his mouth twisting into what might have been a smirk. "Does the Prince of Mirkwood bother you in the same manner?"

She shrugged, remembering their many conversations on the subject. He heard everything she said, to Gandalf, to Frodo, even to the ghosts in her dreams. She hated him for such intrusions, but knew he could hardly help himself. Besides, his keen senses had saved them time again. _I suppose it is an even trade._ "He tries not to, but privacy is hard to come by in such company."

Even without Legolas watching and listening, there were the hobbits. Inquisitive to a fault, they never gave her a moment's peace. Gimli was the same, always wanting to swap stories or regale her with tales of his people. Even when Boromir hated her, he was never far away, always glaring and taunting. And now Aragorn, once the only member of the Fellowship to give her some space, now he seemed to press in as well. But why, she could not say.

"You suit them," Haldir said suddenly, surveying her face as she thought of their mighty company. "At first glance, one might not think so but you do."

His words almost stopped her cold and she was suddenly aware of the sun on her face, warm and sweet through the trees. She looked down at her hands, at the tan skin and black tattoos and the pearly scars she so proudly bore. They were so different from the rest…but also the same. _We have journeyed the same paths, walked the same roads, faced the same darkness and felt the same loss._ _We are the same._

When she looked up, her smile bright as the stars, she expected to see Haldir, but he was gone again without so much as a sound. _Damn elves_ she thought with a crooked grin.

Legolas did not bother to turn around, his keen ears listening to her footfalls as she fell back into line. He smiled to himself, turning over Haldir's words in his head. His thoughts drifted back to Rivendell, to the other Elven stronghold they once occupied. It was months ago that they sat in Elrond's council where he argued so fervently against her. Now he chuckled at the memory, thankful that no one heeded his words. _She suits us_.

The river came too quickly for them, winding through the trees like a thick silver ribbon. Sakhra could smell the water before she heard it, having the keen Haradrim sense for water. Usually it made her happy, but now the river made her sad. The river would take them away to more dangers and more darkness. _More death._ She eyed the white boats on the bank with narrowed eyes, breathing a small sigh of relief. _At least orcs won't attack us on the water._

Galadriel and her kin gathered at the bank, standing tall beneath a white canopy that glittered in the morning light. She smiled at them all, a radiant creature beyond reckoning, but this time there was no voice to echo in Sakhra's head. Next to her, Celeborn spread his arms wide, gesturing for them to come forward.

The nine did as the elf lord requested, turning to face him with trepidation. Even Aragorn seemed nervous in his presence and could not bear to look on Celeborn for long. Sakhra felt the same, having to avert her eyes from the light reflecting off his white robes.

"You nine are the champions of Middle-Earth, the bastions of light in this world slowly slipping into darkness. We give you what we can, in hopes that we can aid you in the Quest," he said, waving a hand at the white boats. There were parcels packed inside, filled with food, blankets, water skins, anything to help ease the journey. "The blessings and prayers of our people go with you into shadow."

When Sakhra felt smooth hands at her neck, she nearly spun, her hand reaching for her dagger. But these were elf hands, not orc, and she stilled herself long enough to feel smooth fabric fall around her shoulders. The elf behind her shifted, moving to fasten the jeweled clasp of her new cloak. Others did the same with the rest of the Fellowship, draping specially made cloaks around them. Sakhra marveled at the light but thick fabric, running the gray cloth between her fingers. It smelled of Lothlorien, of light and comfort.

"Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people," Celeborn continued, smiling at little at Pippin who was already fussing with his clasp. "May these cloaks help shield you from unfriendly eyes."

A kingly gift, Legolas knew and he fought the urge to smile. Elven cloaks were imbued with magical properties, able to hide the wearer from danger in almost any circumstance. It comforted him to know his friends would now be shrouded as he was.

The sun strengthened through the trees, casting its light onto the river. It sparkled up at Galadriel, creating a halo around her. She motioned to her attendants, then took measured, silent steps towards the Fellowship.

"We gift you not only with these cloaks, but other items to help you on the road, for it is shaded with danger and much darkness." She moved to the far end of the line, Celeborn and her attendants at her side, to face Aragorn. To him she presented a curved Elven dagger, nearly a sword in itself. Celeborn murmured what sounded like a warning in Elvish, but Sakhra could not be sure. They moved swiftly, presenting each member with something beautiful and helpful. Boromir was given a golden belt to rival any treasure, while Merry and Pippin were presented with Elven knives. Sam received a coil of Elvish rope, something that would serve him well. Galadriel gave a strange vial to Frodo; it seemed to emit its own light and he took it gladly.

When she came to Legolas, he clenched a hand, restraining himself from leaping out to take the gift she held for him. "My gift for you, Legolas," she said, smiling at his obvious joy. "A bow of the Galadhrim, worthy of the skill of our woodland kin."

The bow she passed over was pale and delicately carved, the opposite of his dark Mirkwood bow. He took it reverently, running keen hands over the intricate woodwork and the bowstring. _He holds it like a lover_ , Sakhra thought with an inner smirk. She made a note to tease him later.

But her internal laughter quickly died when Galadriel moved to face her. The elf woman's eyes glimmered like knowing jewels and there was a gray box in her hands, waiting to be opened.

"My lady," Sakhra murmured, bowing her head. "You owe no gift to me." It felt wrong to take from elves, from those who had already given so much.

But Galadriel only smiled. "Sakhra Terazon," she said aloud. Even her Haradaic sounded musical. Sakhra was only a little surprised to hear Galadriel use her new name; after all, she was in her head only hours ago. This was no great feat in comparison. "I offer no blade, for you have many and another would give you no comfort. Instead, I beg you take this token, an heirloom of the Elves of Beleriand. It was crafted beneath an eclipse, to forever hold the light of a veiled sky."

With pale hands, Galadriel opened the box to reveal a jewel no human had ever worn. It was a round stone that seemed to flicker in color, fading from the hazy pink of sunset to golden brown. _A veiled sun_. Though the stone was small, barely larger than her thumbnail, Sakhra felt herself catch her breath at the sight. She wanted to protest such a mighty gift but could not find it in her heart to do so. Galadriel smiled demurely, letting an attendant fasten the gold chain around Sakhra's neck. It hung perfectly, not too long or too short, and was easily hidden by her collar.

" _I give you strong will and cold water_ ," Sakhra said in Haradaic, echoing the greatest thanks her people had.

To her surprise, Galadriel responded in kind. " _I accept with open hands_ ," she said, her Haradaic perfect and flowing. "In Elvish, the stone is called _Morianar_. Keep it close and let it guide your heart."

Sakhra was so enraptured, so overwhelmed by Galadriel's gift, that she could only nod. Though she had seen and taken many treasures in her life, this was the greatest, and not only in beauty or worth. The stone sat against her skin, strangely cool and comforting beneath her collar. In that moment she knew it was her treasure, her greatest possession.

It distracted her so much that she barely heard Gimli make his strange request, asking for a golden hair from Galadriel's head. She didn't notice Galadriel give him three. And she certainly did not notice Legolas's piercing gaze as he stared at her necklace, blue eyes boring into the perfect stone.

 _Morianar_ , he thought. Something trembled in his heart, hearkening back to Galadriel's veiled warning before. _Morianar. Dark sun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, follow thesandshadow.tumblr.com if you want updates on the story or just to say hi! I've started posting some of my own garish attempts at photoshop, plus some costume ideas for later on in the story.
> 
> Fair warning, The Two Towers is my favorite part of LotR (blame Rohan) so I intend to have a lot of fun once we get there.


	13. Black As Oil

Even after long years away from the desert heat and the stinging sand winds, Sakhra could not help marveling at the sound and feel of water. She let a hand trail in the river, catching the cold, clear Anduin between her fingers as it rushed past. _So much of it_ , she thought, _and so much more I can't see._ She fought back the urge to fill her water skin – _for it is quite full_ – and simply enjoyed the touch of water.

Gray fish with scales like silver came up from the depths, nibbling at her gently. In Harad, fish were a delicacy unknown to many, particularly the desert tribes from which she hailed. Even at the guild in Umbar, the Hasharin ate fish sparingly, for the creatures of the southern sea made for salty, delicious meals. Instead, the long tables of the guild were usually full of dried jerky and harsh grain, to train the children against the joys of taste. But they served wine and sweet rum and biting white liquors like they were water, building up tolerances from a young age. A Hasharin child could out drink a full grown man, if given the chance. _And the talent served me many times_ , Sakhra remembered, thinking on the many contracts that required it. Many a drunken man fell to her bright eyes and sharp blade.

When she came north, forsaking the guild and her last contract, it took long weeks, months even, for her tongue to adjust to the ways of the North. It was not the language that vexed her (for Sakhra had spent long hours perfecting the common tongue), but the food. Rich, heavy plates of meat and cheese and vegetables like she'd never known, so delicious they turned her stomach. Many a meal with Gandalf ended in trouble, until finally she adjusted. The food put weight back on her bones, filling out a figure that was once just hard muscle and bone. Five years in the North made her womanly, at least in form, but not at all weak. If anything, the soft life she lived now, at least in comparison to the Hasharin path, made her stronger. Every green field, every rain storm, every kind word reminded her of where she came from and how hard she would fight to never return.

But still she dreamed of the desert, of the hot night kissing her skin as she raced across the dunes. Her inky black sand mare was but a shadow, and she its sun. In those hours, she could forget her blades and her dark purpose. In those hours, she was just Sakhra of the desert, a woman with no name and no dreams to plague her.

There was nothing like the strange stars of Harad or the vibrant sounds of the cities. In her heart, she missed the good things she remembered – music, laughter, hidden smiles and stolen kisses, the rope-fire dance. _Farzane._ But those joys came with a price, and for all the music and all the stars, she would not pay it again.

When her thoughts cleared, she realized the fish were gone, washed away by the current, never to return. _The Anduin is swift and strong_ , she thought, noting the speed at which they traveled. The banks passed by quickly as the river took their boats, bearing them further south with every passing moment. _Strong as the fate carrying us all, to whatever end._

If Legolas did not know her better, he would think her to be sleeping, so still she was with one hand in the water. _She would be speaking the names if she was asleep._ Her sleeve was wet to the elbow, but she did not seem to mind. He smirked at the sight and was reminded of himself in a forest, in constant reverence of nature. But this was different. He knew trees well, having lived beneath them his entire life. Water was still a mystery to her and a wonder so great she could not bear to let it go.

Occasionally he would dip his oar, steering the boat from a rock or into a swifter current. Boromir and Aragorn did the same, directing their own boats full of hobbits. His boat seemed to be a thing of mismatches, carrying an elf, a dwarf and a Haradrim woman. Gimli sat behind her and for once he was not arguing with the elf. Instead, he was deep in thought, occasionally dropping a hand to his pocket where Galadriel's gift lay.

"It is not like dwarves to be so bewitched by elves," Sakhra said, turning in her seat to face Gimli. When he didn't immediately answer, lost in thought, she flicked a spray of water at him. "Gimli, Son of Gloin, you are smitten!"

Something like a blustering cough erupted from beneath Gimli's beard and Sakhra did not miss his flush. She smiled, touching him on the shoulder as if to rouse him from his lovestruck stupor. "Legolas, the impossible has happened."

"Will they tell tales of this back in your mountain home?" Legolas prodded, joining in the fun. "Gimli and Galadriel – the names even fit together. It will be a beautiful song, I think, to be passed down through generations of dwarves."

"Dwarves do not become _smitten_ ," Gimli grumbled, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. "Not with elf queens, not with anyone."

Sakhra put a hand on her heart, drawing back in mock offense. "You wound me, Master Dwarf."

"Aye, my lady," Gimli chuckled in response. For a moment she could see the young dwarf he must've been, a cheeky flirt with sparkling eyes and a dashing smile. "I spoke poorly, for my heart belongs to none but you."

With a satisfied smirk, Sakhra turned back around to face the river. "As it should be," she chirped. But something tempered her voice, layered beneath the smiles and jibes. A hard weight that she hoped no one would notice.

Even though she tried to lose herself in the river, to let the water song and the wind take her mind, she felt her eyes stray. Past gray cloaks and white oars, over Aragorn's sharp shoulders and Sam's golden curls, to the little pale hobbit leading the way. His hand clenched under his cloak, holding on to the infernal thing that could be their doom. Though the wind was cold, she felt a heat deep inside, a curling flame to stir the blood and darken the heart.

_I will be strong._ Boromir's words sounded weak in her head, like wisps of string slowly being pulled apart. This time it was not the Gondorian's resolve weakening, but her own.

_The Ring is evil_ , she told herself in a bitter, weak warning. _The Ring must be destroyed._

_The Ring is power_ , another voice answered, a voice like her own but so much darker. _The Ring can do many things._

Briefly she thought of rope and the slaver's tent, of the sisters she lost to the harems, of the thousands who met similar fates in the blazing sand. _Are they still alive, bound in silken chains?_ She could not remember their faces, not for all the jewels in the world, but she remembered their screams, she remembered the sound of her mother weeping in the night. She the crack of the whip that drove them away, the whip one day meant for her. It was a fate few slaves escaped, especially the girls. But for one curious night and one Hasharin elder, Sakhra knew she would've faced the harem tent like all the rest. Just the thought made her angry and weary and afraid, wondering at the wretched creature she might've been.

The vision struck her like lighting, blinding her to the river and the wind and the Company. It was sharp as daylight and real as anything she had ever known. She saw herself in the city of Umbar, a dark warrior on a dark horse surrounded by the banners of Gondor behind her, with Boromir the Steward and Aragorn the King on either side. Their blades were drawn, dripping blood, and sand fell from their hair. They entered the city as conquerors, as liberators, with an army of rescued slaves at their back. The harem girls killed their masters, choking them with their chains. Laborers put down the shovel to take up the sword. Her sisters, her mother, her father, their faces shadowed by memory, walked with them and all of Umbar was cleansed of its foul darkness. The guild itself burned in black fire, crumbling into the sea. She watched from a high tower, with the sun bright and warm on her face. And the Ring glittered on her finger, an emblem of her power, her greatness, her _mercy._

But the Elven stone at her neck, the Morianar, was black as oil. And like the fires that consumed the guild, it _burned._

With that world faded, replaced by green banks and the blue river, Sakhra could not help but gasp. Sweat broke across her brow and she pulled her hand from the river, letting the cool water soothe her flaming skin. In her belly, sickness roiled, and the Morianar still felt hot to the touch.

_Gandalf,_ she screamed in her head, trying her best not to weep at her weakness. _Ekelled, why did you fall? Why did you leave me to face this path alone?_

Gimli was once again in his smitten thoughts, but Legolas was far from it. He watched her shoulders rise and fall with narrowed eyes, listening to her heavy breaths and quick pulse. When she put a hand over her eyes, albeit briefly, he could not hold his tongue any longer.

"Sakhra?" he said, his voice low and gentle. It was the voice he used with the woodland creatures, spooked deer or lone wolves, to calm and placate.

But she did not turn, unable to meet his gaze. And that frightened him more than anything else.

* * *

The river made their journey swift and safe, protecting them from whatever prowled the banks of the Anduin. Aragorn was careful, making camp within inches of the lapping water, and even made sure the hobbits slept in the boats. Should an orc pack descend, it would be nothing at all to push them into the river, protecting them from all but arrows. But even though they grew farther from Lothlorien and deeper into the unfettered wild, nothing assuaged them. It was almost like the days before Moria, when they traveled south along the mountains, and their only troubles were birds and gamy rabbits.

_But those days are long gone_ , Aragorn thought grimly, noting the conspicuous absence of a gray cloak and pointed hat. If Gandalf had been with them, their fire would be bright and warm. Frodo would smile, Pippin would be lively once more and Sakhra would joke and tease as she once did. The Hasharina had been quiet since they left Lothlorien, since he tried to confront her. Aragorn did not do so again, not even when they crept into the woods together to hunt. _She has done as I wished_ , he knew, noting how she barely spoke to Legolas. _And more_. For her coldness extended not only to the Prince of Mirkwood, but to the hobbits as well, particularly Frodo, and even Gimli. He half-expected her to don her veil again, so reserved she had become. _It is Gandalf that plagues her_ , he believed, and that was not entirely untrue.

Though Boromir seemed a brute, he understood more than others knew, and he perceived Sakhra's own inner anguish better than the others. When she boated with him after their first day on the river, switching places with Pippin, only Legolas felt rankled. The Gondorian had been her enemy at the beginning and, though he was glad to see their friendship grow, it made him strangely uneasy. They often talked together, gathering firewood or walking the banks after dinner, and he had to restrain himself from listening to their conversation. _She would not like it_ , he knew, and he did not want to give her another reason to ignore him.

Wood-elves were an open people, accustomed to speaking plainly on their thoughts and feelings, even to a fault some would say. If this had been Mirkwood, if Sakhra had been his own kin, he would've questioned her outright, but she was neither. Secrets and shaded thoughts were her own language, and it was one he did not understand.

But when the Falls of Rauros drew near, the roar of them threatening to drown out all else, Legolas pushed all thoughts of Sakhra from his mind. Another shadow came to cloud his thoughts, a dark weight that plagued him even beneath the sun and trees. _Something is coming_ , he knew. And judging by the sharpness in Aragorn's eyes, he was not alone in the thought.

It was midday when they put in at the white posts, tying their boats up just beyond the reach of the falls. Their journey downriver was almost done and, though the river gave them safety, Sakhra was eager to have her feet on the ground again. As mesmerizing as the water was, she did not trust it. It was too cold and wet and deep – who knows what the mirrored surface hid?

And what she _could_ see in the water, she did not like. _My reflection._ Though their time in Lothlorien had rested her, the bruise like circles beneath her eyes had quickly returned. Once golden skin took on a pale, sickly pallor as her color leeched away. And her eyes – she could not look into them long. _So dark, darker even then before, when I was a twisted, terrible thing. What does that say about me now?_

"We cross at nightfall," Aragorn spoke aloud, helping Frodo and Sam from the boat. He gestured to the eastern shore, where the shadows were already long despite the hour.

_Nightfall?_ Such a plan did not sit well with Sakhra, who knew that orcs would be swarming in the darkness. _But who am I to question a ranger and a future king to boot? I am no one._

_No_ , said the voice she tried so hard to ignore. _You are the Sand Shadow, the Scorpion Queen_. Even her mind hesitated to say the words, the name she had tried so hard to lose. _Mal Mara, Death's Kiss._ _A slave and an assassin and a traitor to your own kind, a woman with no one and nothing but dark deeds and a thirsty blade._

"Sakhra."

The little voice made her turn, her movement sharp and quick as a snakes. But instead of a enemy, she found blue eyes staring up at her. _Frodo. Worse than any orc._ With great effort, she bit back the urge to run away and forced a smile, for the hobbit's sake.

"Yes, Frodo?" she said, willing the tightness from her voice.

In response, he held out his hand further. She finally realized he was holding a little bowl of stew, with a bit of Elven lembas floating in the middle. "You should eat," Frodo said quietly, putting a small hand on her arm.

"I thought I was supposed to be minding you," she replied, taking the bowl from him. "Not the other way around."

It cheered Frodo to hear her jokes and he brightened. But Sakhra couldn't help but notice the darkness in his own eyes – not so bad as hers, but there all the same. She wanted to ask after his well-being, but worried that talk of the Ring might plunge her back into that terrible vision. So instead, she forced a spoonful of stew into her mouth. _Sam's doing_ , she knew, tasting the spices.

Even though she ate, Frodo lingered, his gaze flickering to the trees of the far bank. "Not so far now," he murmured and she knew what he thought of.

"But still a long way to go," she said, remembering the path that lay before them. The closer they grew to Mordor and the South, the more familiar the land became. "And you are with the Company, Frodo, until the very end."

She expected him to smile at that, but if anything, his sorrow seemed to grow. With a swish of his gray cloak, the hobbit turned and shuffled away, back to their meager camp. Months ago, Sakhra would've followed, to distract Frodo with her tales or teasing, but not today. _I must be strong._

After finished the stew, she washed the bowl in the river, and this time it held no wonder. Her attention was elsewhere, on Legolas and Aragorn standing with their heads close together, deep in conversation. The elf argued sharply, his brows furrowed in determination, but Aragorn was resolute as ever.

"A shadow and a threat has been growing in my head," he said, his words barely audible. But Sakhra angled herself well, into the slight breeze that carried his voice. "Something draws near. I can feel it."

_A shadow and a threat._ She wondered what that could mean, how strong the senses of elves really were. Bleakly, she entertained the idea that the shadow was herself, the threat her own blade. _The Ring calls and if something does not change soon, I will answer._

_You would leave us so willingly?_ His voice in Lothlorien echoed to her out of memory. It seemed years away, though it was little more than a week ago.

_If it meant aiding the quest._ She meant it then, she meant it with all her heart. The time to act on those words would come, and come soon. _I must be strong._ And sometimes being strong meant knowing when to let go.

Despite their hours of talk, their time on the river and in each others' company, Sakhra's own shadow had blinded her. Another would've seen the signs in Boromir, the sweat on his brow or the nervous wringing of his hands. The way his eyes flickered to Frodo, always Frodo. His mind was in Gondor, in his own visions of a city rescued from darkness by a gleaming band of gold. He felt his strength fail, and Sakhra did not see the signs.

"Where's Frodo?" Merry suddenly said, looking sharply over the bank.

Sakhra vaulted to her feet, eyes already wide and searching. Her pulse pounded in her hears like the rush of drums, a sound like nothing else. When her eyes fell on Boromir's shield, alone in the crook of a tree, it was the one sign she could not ignore.

_I must be strong._

Aragorn was crashing through the trees before she could blink, all his quick and quiet ways gone in his desperation. She did not miss his hand stray to his sword hilt, nor did she question why. _At best, Boromir will be forced from us_ , she knew, _and at worst…_

_At worst, Aragorn will carry another death on his shoulders._

In that instant, she prayed to her gods of sand and stars, of war and wisdom, begging them for Boromir's sanity and his life. _And I will go with him. I will leave as he does, and with it aid the quest more than I ever could from within._

"Sam, douse the fire," Legolas said swiftly, even has he leapt up onto a rock. He stared after Aragorn, though he was long gone from mortal flight.

Too worried to argue, Sam poured a bowl of water over the fire, to Merry's great dismay. His tomatoes would have to go cold. Despite Merry's grumbling and the sizzle of a dying fire, Sakhra realized it was oddly quiet.

She cocked her head, sparing a glance for the far bank. Across the water, birds chirped and wind stirred the leaves… _but not so hear._ "Do you hear it, Legolas?" she said, speaking directly to him for the first time in days.

He did not have to ask to know she meant nothing. "I do." The graveness in his voice even gave Gimli pause.

"What is it?" Sam demanded, the little fire kindling deep inside. "What's coming?"

When the wind shifted, she caught the smell. Blood, rancid meat, _death._ Her sword sang as she pulled it from its sheath and Legolas already had an arrow on the string. "Into the boats," she began, moving to shove the hobbits into the safety of the river. "Quickly, paddle out-."

"Not without Mr. Frodo!" Sam shouted back, to her dismay. The loyalty she admired so much in him now became a curse. The other hobbits were quick to rally to Sam's side, drawing their little swords.

Gimli raised his axe, letting the edge catch the light. "We'll bring him, mark my words," he growled. "Stay back, young hobbits. There's warrior work to be done here."

" _Please_ , Sam," Sakhra tried once more, knowing if she could convince him, the others would follow. But the hobbit was made of stronger stuff, and he was the first to bolt into the trees.

But not the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies!


	14. Breaking

The trees dappled the ground with light and shadow and lay thick across the hilly ground. Roots and rocks would make sure footing hard for them, and their enemies. _Good,_ Sakhra thought as they ascended. _Let them fall._ Her eyes darted across the landscape, making note of the steep incline, the leafy ground, low-lying branches and brambles, and thethe old Gondorian ruins pushing up through the undergrowth. Another would see them as obstacles, obstructions, but not the Hasharina. Together with the gray cloak of Lorien, she would be but a shadow here, a blade between the branches, a knife in green darkness.

She could feel Merry and Pippin at her heels, eager but afraid. Sam was still well ahead, shouting out for his master, searching every hollow. This place was more like hobbit country than she knew and try as she might, Sam soon slipped out of her sight.

"Sam!" she called, trying to draw him back, but the hobbit was long gone.

The clang of swords and armor filtered through the trees, an unearthly shatter of metal to chill the blood. _So many_ , she knew, hearing the clank of dozens of armored feet. But there was no time to think of such things. No time at all.

Without thought, her hands closed on Merry's collar and she tossed him bodily into a shadowed nook between two fallen trees. Pippin followed after, protesting heavily, but one glare from the Hasharina silenced them both.

"Do not move from this place," she hissed, pushing as much menace as she could into the words. "Keep up your hoods, use the cloaks. _Do not move_."

Against such an order, they could only nod.

Legolas was already halfway up the hill, sprinting over the rocks like a bird through air. The woods were his domain and it showed; bushes and branches seemed to part, allowing him to pass unobstructed. They sensed the elf's desperation and fear, for he too heard the march of many dark feet and knew his friend faced them alone.

Despite his stocky stature, Gimli was not far behind, his axe spinning through the air. Sakhra followed him closely, her grip tight on her blade. All thoughts of running, of abandoning the Fellowship, were gone from her mind. Now her focus heightened, narrowing the world to only what she needed to see.

And what she saw was terrible.

They crested the hill one after the other, in a flurry of blades, axes and arrows. The ruins of Amon Hen, old cracked stone and fallen statues, littered the ground. And amongst the stonework, black figures, taller than a man, stronger than an orc, quicker than goblins – foul creatures the like of which none had ever seen before. White hand prints marked their dark skin – the white hand of Saruman. Their blades were heavy, sharp and cruel, swinging in wide arcs, trying to find home in manflesh.

Aragorn kept them at bay as best he could, holding back a host no man could face alone. They screamed and growled, in a strange mix of Orcish and the common tongue. Sakhra understood the words plainly and shivered at what they said.

"Find the Halfling! Find the Halfling!"

_Frodo._

In Moria, they had Gandalf. In Moria, they faced orcs in a bottleneck. In Moria, they could run. _Now we must fight._ With a roar of her own, she charged into the fray.

Legolas's bow sang, peppering the black horde with arrows faster than the eye could see. Many fell and more surged forward, into Aragorn's sword, Gimli's axe and Sakhra's flashing blade. But the hill was open ground, a clearing where they would be easily surrounded – and more of the beasts were already breaking off, escaping down the hill to pursue their charges. This they could not allow by any means.

"Aragorn, go!" Legolas shouted, even while ducking under a cruel black sword. He hooked his foot, throwing the beast over his shoulder, sending it crashing into the underbrush. Before it could rise again, Sakhra finished the job, slicing through its neck without a word. Blood spattered across her boots, the first of more to come.

Isildur's heir blazed by her in a frenzy, his cloak snapping as he disappeared into the trees. The clang of swords followed him, echoing up the hill. _There are more, more than we imagined there could be._ And more still came, charging up and over the hill in a foul black tide that they could not hold back. Especially not on such open ground.

Her blade hissed through the air, cleaving bone, buying her enough space to push back. "Down the hill, into the trees," she yelled over the din, and the elf and dwarf heard her clearly. One more arrow, one more swing of the axe, and they turned to follow her, dashing into down into the brush.

Now the landscape was on their side, slowing the beasts, making them stumble. Sakhra used every bit of it to her advantage, spinning around trunks and branches with all the old tricks she learned so long ago. Her feet connected with skull, cracking bone against bark, even while her hands tossed up dirt, creating a dusky cloud around her. The creatures pressed in, eager for the kill, but she was not so easily brought down. Before she knew it, the dagger was in her other hand, biting out between armor plates, drawing black blood wherever it could. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw blonde hair flashing in the sunlight, twisting and turning in blistering motion. Legolas had drawn his own blades, two long white knives, and made quick work of the foes around him. She felt a comfort watching the elf, knowing he would fell all that came close. Gimli's own axe turned black with blood, breaking and cleaving in equal measure. The creatures fell around him like wheat from the scythe, many of them writhing in pain, clutching at shattered ribs and open bellies.

More fell, but more came. More and more and more. So many that even the shadows, even the cloak, even her Hasharin training could not protect her.

A black iron sword grazed her cheek, drawing hot blood, and a heavy shield hit her shoulder. She dropped to a knee, nearly losing her sword in the process. Despite the pain, she would not cry out. _That will be a bruise to remember._ When a bloody hand gripped her braid, winding its fingers through her hair, she did not have time to scream.

"A woman, a fine prize," it growled in wretched Orcish. The stink of its breath was enough to make lesser men wretch. Instead, the Hasharina slammed her head into his. It stumbled, but held firm. "Haradrim whore!" it screamed, yanking at her scalp.

When the axe shattered its spine, the beast spoke no more, and she fell from its grasp. Gimli spared her a tiny nod, the only comfort he could, before falling back into rhythm. This was not the first time death had come so close to her and she shrugged it off, tucking away the fear for another day. Her blade spun again, finding home in the steadily thinning horde.

From the hill above, Legolas turned away, aiming his bow at another beast. _I was too slow_ , he cursed to himself. His anger poured into the arrow and the strength of it carried the shaft right through a black neck. _She needed me and I was too slow._

A horn blast silenced his thoughts and rekindled Sakhra's fear, her heart almost bursting with the sensation. "The Horn of Gondor!" Legolas cried aloud, turning towards the sound.

Another blast shook the trees and her bones. _He think he calls for help_ , she thought. But looking through the trees, at the armored shadows pouring down the hill, she realized the horn had another affect. _It calls them down upon him._

"Boromir," she murmured, her mind flashing to the Gondorian captain and his sword. _He is a warrior tried and true, worth twenty of these foul creatures_ , but it was no comfort to her.

Her eyes caught another shadow through the trees, leaping over bush and branch, charging towards the horn blast. _Aragorn_ , she knew, catching sight of his longsword flashing through the trees. _The king will save his steward._

Sakhra did her best to follow, moving steadily through the throng of beasts. While her sword cut them down, her footwork did more harm than anything else. With such quick feet, such sure footing over uneven ground, it was all too easy to trip up the creatures. A few sharp turns, a spin or two and they went sprawling, sliding through the leaves and undergrowth. That was all Legolas needed to pick them off with his deadly arrows. Gimli was there too, biting out with his axe at every turn.

They fell into this rhythm easily, like it was planned and practiced long ago. In truth, it was the heat of battle that brought this out, using their strengths to compliment each other and form a lethal trio of warriors. When Sakhra stumbled, Legolas was there. When Legolas missed his mark, Gimli was there. And when Gimli's arm tired, just for a moment, Sakhra was there. If a bard had been witness to this dance of death in the trees of Amon Hen, there would be a great song for decades to come. Though there were only the trees and the dying beasts and each other, the song sang in their blood, pounding with the pulse of three likened hearts.

The last creature they could see fell to Gimli's axe, his head cloven in two, and for a moment, Sakhra could not believe it was the end. She panted, gasping at fresh air now tainted with blood, but nothing had ever tasted so sweet. _I am alive._

The Prince of Mirkwood was not so transfixed, having battled hosts many times before. Survival was easier for him to understand. He touched her on the shoulder, just for a moment, letting her know their job was not yet done. "Come," he murmured, before setting off through the trees. Already he could hear steel on iron, Aragorn's sword against another's. Battle still raged.

Sakhra tried her best to stay on his heels, but he was an elf and no matter how much training she received, she could never best him over ground. But her nose, that was another matter. Above all things, a Hasharin knows the smell of blood. And even against the stench of bleeding beasts, Sakhra caught the hint of man. His blood was fresh and flowing – and dying. Without thought, she changed course, running from the sounds of battle to the scent of death.

He lay slumped against a tree, surrounded by dead, black bodies like fallen trees. There were arrows in him, three thick arrows that would fell a troll, and blood stained through his jerkin. _His party shirt is ruined_ , she thought dimly, remembering the jibe spoken long ago. How she wished for those days, when Boromir hated her. That was a thousand times better than this.

Her knees hit the dirt next to him, barely inches from his massive, shuddering frame. "Boromir," she said, using all the strength she had to keep her voice from shaking. And so, she had no more strength to stop the tears. For another, she might have lied, telling him it would be all right, that his wounds were few, that he would _live._ But one look told her that would do no good at all. _A pierced lung and stomach, with another arrow in the flesh between. He will not last the hour._ Briefly she entertained the idea of packing dirt into his wounds, if only to stop the bleeding, if only to buy a few more moments of life. But Boromir caught her hand and in his eyes was a knowing look: his time had come.

Even in death, he managed to smile at her. "Look at this, a Haradrim weeping over a dying captain of Gondor." His voice was weak and heavy, choked with blood. She could see it staining his teeth, robbing him of a grin in these last moments.

"Look at this, a captain of Gondor submitting so easily to death," she replied, brushing away a tear with the back of her hand. "I thought you were stronger than this."

Despite the smirk, his eyes darkened. "I was not strong enough, Sakhra," he murmured, with so much shame she thought she felt her heart break. "I went after Frodo."

"It was only a matter of time," she breathed. She tightened her grip on his hand and the weakness she felt made her tremble. "For both of us."

His stare, full of regret, pain, anger, shame and even accusation, was almost too much for her to bear. _He is a son of the Steward, a good man, of honor and strength. It should be me against this tree. How can I deserve life when this man is dead?_ Boromir seemed to understand her thoughts, reading them plainly in her eyes. With all the strength he had left, he squeezed her hand.

"You must go on," he said, with all the resolve of a king. " _Terazon_. That is your name, and you have earned it."

Sunlight fell on his hair, turning it bronze and gold like a crown. The birdsong returned, haunting through the trees, and she heard steady footsteps behind her. _The battle is won, so why do I feel like we've lost?_ When she felt a hand on her shoulder, bruised and bleeding, she knew it was her time as well. Briefly, she murmured a Haradaic prayer, a call to the gods to watch over Boromir, to protect him even in death. Her hand grazed his cheek and then she stood, pulling away, never to see or hear him speak again.

Her actions were mechanical, detached and cold as she went through the motions. She wiped her sword on the grass, cleaning it as best she could, before attending to her dagger. Her leathers came next, then her boots. The shoulder would be sore for a few days and the cut on her cheek would need cleaning, but nothing else seemed amiss. _Nothing but the dead friend behind me._

Gandalf's death still struck her, shadowing her heart with fear and sorrow, but this was another feeling. Boromir was her friend in the end, but not a guide, not a father-figure, not her rock of comfort in a stormy world. _So why does it hurt so much?_

With a shiver, she realized. _I am Boromir, and he is me. He fell to the Ring and died for it. He broke this company with his weakness. And if I stay, so will I._

Through the trees, she glimpsed Sam and Frodo paddling across the river. Their white boat gleamed in the sunlight, betraying the darkness now spreading through her mind. The others would follow soon enough, collecting Merry and Pippin and piling into the remaining boats. The Quest would continue, through death and darkness and shadow. _But I will not._

Gimli's heaving breath, loud enough to hide his exhaustion and his pain, told her the others were not far behind. Whatever Aragorn murmured to Boromir, she could not hear, but when he stood again, she knew it was over. Boromir was dead.

The elf stood alone, again a picture of confusion. _He does not understand death,_ she thought. It was not the way of elves to die.

"We should bury him," Gimli growled, leaning on his axe like a walking stick. "It will not take long."

Sakhra trembled at the thought of digging such a grave, marking it with Boromir's shield and sword. Luckily, it was not a thing Aragorn would permit. He bent over Boromir's body, breaking off the arrows shafts with quick, pointed action.

"It will take long enough," he replied. As with Gandalf's passing, Aragorn had already rebuilt the wall around his heart. The time for grieving was done. "The beasts, the Uruk-Hai of Saruman, have taken Merry and Pippin."

Finally Sakhra turned, sucking in breath past clenched teeth. "Taken?" she snapped, feeling fire spread through her. In her head, a thousand terrible thoughts flashed past her eyes, all of the hobbits at the mercy of such rancid beasts. "To Isengard?"

"They believe they have the Ring," Legolas murmured, puzzling out the meaning. "And when Saruman finds they do not…" he trailed away, unable to continue.

Aragorn nodded, also unwilling to say the words. With a grunt, he put his arms around Boromir and lifted the man. Gimli was quick to take his feet, and together they carried the Gondorian down to the shore. Sakhra did not immediately follow, her eyes locked on the black spot where Boromir had died. His blood stained the ground, the only echo of a once great man brought so low.

Stooping, Legolas collected Boromir's sword, now lying alone amongst the leaves. "And now we are eight," he murmured. Again he wondered how much more the Fellowship would splinter, and who else would die before the end.

"Seven," she replied, the words escaping her before she could stop them.

The elf whirled, blue eyes wide in confusion. "What do you mean?"

_Speak plainly. That's all we have time for._ "Boromir was tempted before death, and it could have been the ending of us all." Hands shaking, she took the sword from Legolas. It felt heavy in her hands, with sorrow and with shame. "I will not let the same happen again."

"You would leave us so willingly?" he said, echoing the words spoken in Lothlorien. This time, it was more fear than shock poisoning his voice. _She cannot. We need her. She knows the paths, she is a good warrior, she is a comfort to us all._

"Merry and Pippin will die without aid. When you go on, I will go back."

His brow furrowed, reading between her words. "And you would die as well."

For that, she had only one answer. "Do not try and stop me."

_I wish I could_ , he thought, feeling another pang of sorrow rise up in his heart. In the past months, Legolas had come to know Sakhra well, and so he knew that she would go where she wanted. No man and no danger would stop her, and to try would be an insult, not a comfort. "I will not," he said and it sounded so terribly final.

She turned away, stalking down to the shore with Boromir's sword laid across her palms. It was cold and wet, stained with black blood and fallen tears.

When she reached the shore, Aragorn and Gimli had already put Boromir in an empty boat, together with his shield and broken horn. Aragorn even removed his overcoat, revealing the wine-dark shirt beneath. If she squinted, she could not even see the bloodstains. _He could only be sleeping_ , she mused, looking on his pale, still face. _Not asleep. Dead._ _And he needs only his sword now in this, his final journey._

Aragorn bent over the lip of the boat, staring intensely, committing the features of Boromir, son of Denethor, to his memory. He laid one last hand across Boromir's heart before pulling back, folding his arms against his chest. The vambraces taken from Boromir, hard brown leather inlaid with the white tree of Gondor, were worthy tokens, relics of the Steward's son. _So part of him will journey with me. Part of him will go on, and the Fellowship will survive._

"We need only his sword," he said, turning to watch Sakhra emerge from the trees. Legolas was not far behind, his fair features marred by grief, and he walked slowly, almost languidly, down to the shore. But she wasted no time at all, barely sparing a glance for the others, before laying the sword upon Boromir's chest. With shaking hands, she twisted his fingers, forcing them to grasp the sword one last time.

"He died a warrior," she murmured, pulling away like she was burned by the corpse. "And he is a warrior now, even in death."

It took all four of them to shove the boat back into the river, their shoulders to the white wood. As they heaved, sliding the boat back down the sand, each spoke a prayer in their own language, bidding good-bye to Boromir of Gondor. Khuzdul, Elvish, Haradaic, and Westron, but all meant the same. _Be at peace._

Sakhra felt Legolas at her shoulder, barely straining to move the boat. When it hit the water, she turned away, not wanting to be so close to him. He knew her plan and already she could feel his judgment. _He thinks I am abandoning them. He thinks I am a failure._

_She is too strong for her own good_ , he thought, watching her busy herself at the last boat. _Too proud and too strong. She does not know that her heart will falter. She does not know her fate yet._ And above all, pounding like a drum, three words. _She cannot leave._

He moved swiftly, almost leaping towards her boat. With one great shove, he pushed it to the water's edge, pulling away her pack and supplies with it. _You will not leave._

"We must hurry," he said, shouting over her to Aragorn and Gimli. "Frodo and Sam have already reached the eastern shore!"

Sakhra glared at him with all the fire she could muster, her scowl dark and terrible. "Legolas," she growled through clenched teeth. But he had no time to fear the Hasharina's wrath, turning to the Ranger with expectation.

Like Sakhra, there was hesitation in Aragorn, son of Arathorn. His eyes lingered on the distant shore, taking in what might be the last sight of Frodo and Sam. Their cloaks shrouded them in green shadow and they faded into the trees, leaving the Fellowship behind. The Ring went with them, passing beyond their aid – and their reach. Like Boromir, like Sakhra, Aragorn felt his own weakness, and it frightened him. There was only one thing he could do to stop it.

Slowly, surely, he slid his dagger back into its sheath and turned his back on the river, and the way to Mordor.

Legolas read his friend's expression plainly and his resolve faltered, falling into nothing. "You mean not to follow them," he said. It was not a question. _Too proud and too strong_ echoed in his head again, this time for the Dunedain.

"Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands," Aragorn replied, casting a glance at Sakhra. He noted how her shoulders drooped, releasing a tension she had long held at bay. Quickly, she nodded and he was glad of it. _At least she is on my side. At least I am not alone in this._

Gimli was not so easily convinced, blustering and sputtering at the course of action. He was a dwarf and dwarves were not so easily turned aside in their endeavor. "Then it has all been in vain!" he swore, casting up his hands as he looked between them. "The Fellowship has failed."

_I swore to guide Frodo wherever he may go, and I was not strong enough to do so._ The thought made her insides burn like sun on sand, but she was glad of the pain. _I was strong enough to turn away. I suppose there is some comfort in that._

"I would not say that, Gimli," she said, finally moving away from the riverbank to join the dwarf. "We did all we could for Frodo, and took him as far as our strength allowed. We taught him, guided him, aided him." The memory of their time on the road, the Ten Walkers, a Fellowship, tempered her words. "And he takes all we have given with them. All was not in vain."

Part of her scoffed at the words, even inside her own head. _Soft-hearted, foolish, that is what you are. Trying to put sweetness where none should be._ But that part of her was weakening by the moment, now that the Ring was out of sight. The Hasharin she was once was fading again, to be swallowed up by the shadows at the back of her mind.

"The Fellowship still stands," Aragorn agreed, putting one hand on Gimli's shoulder, the other on Legolas's arm. His eyes rested on Sakhra, communicating his thoughts with a glance. "If we hold true to each other."

"Merry and Pippin," she murmured, understanding his meaning. Next to her, Legolas straightened and she thought she saw the shadow of a smile. _Alone, it was a suicide mission. But together, we may yet have a chance._

He nodded, a sour look crossing his face. "I will not abandon them to torment and death. Not while we have strength left."

Despite her own misgivings and the prospect of facing down the Uruk-hai horde once more, Sakhra felt the old rumble deep in her chest. The sharp, almost sweet taste of blood lingered in the air, and for the Hasharina, it was a memory of old days past. For once, she did not shudder at the thought and reveled at it. _This is what I was made for. The pursuit, the kill. The hunt._ The stone around her neck seemed to agree, feeling cool against her sweat-drenched skin.

It was almost second nature to shed her unneeded belongings, leaving her blanket, pack and the old yew bow. Legolas's arrows were far better than hers and it would only slow her down. Now she was herself again, with nothing but her leathers, her dagger and the sword at her side. Already her toes wriggled in her boots, ready to be off and running. The others were just as eager, leaving all they could behind on the sand, relics of the Fellowship and brighter days.

Now they were the Hunters, with a new task ahead of them, and a new road to run.

Smirking, Aragorn tightened the ties on his jerkin and wiped the blood from his brow. "Let's hunt some orc."

It was to the sound of the crashing falls and Gimli's roar that they set off into the trees, four dark shadows shooting like arrows from the bow, ready to surmount any obstacle yet to come. And of those, there would be many.


	15. The Hunt

The pursuit took them over hill and rock, through glade and stream, until the sun set red and glaring into their eyes. The forests of the Anduin were thinning, steadily giving way to vast plains and grassland. Legolas frowned into the sun, his sharp eyes always trained on the horizon, looking for the black shadow that was their prey. But the Uruks were already beyond his sight, hiding behind the gentle rises ahead. Occasionally Aragorn paused to check their tracks but the markings were easy to read. Even Gimli could see the bent grass and broken branches cutting a path over the land, creating a trail to follow. Sakhra had her own skill at tracking and noted the footprints, looking for depressions a little deeper than the rest – _heavier. Carrying hobbits._

"They would not waste their strength carrying corpses," she breathed, brushing a hand against a deep footprint.

Over her shoulder, Aragorn nodded and set off at his unforgiving pace. Legolas was never far behind, breathing evenly, as if he was walking through a garden instead of sprinting across Middle-Earth. It set Sakhra's teeth on edge and though she was well accustomed to such activity, even she began to feel the sting. Her breath came harder as darkness fell and the stars became their guide through the night. Sweat broke across her brow despite the cold wind and she was reminded of days in the desert. Hot sun and scorching sand storms had not defeated her. _And neither will this_ , she told herself, forcing a faster pace. The dwarf, somehow keeping step despite his shorter legs, heavy armor and natural disposition against speed, pushed her as well. _If he can keep up, so can I._

But the Hunters were not Uruk-hai running with the will of Saruman; they could not run forever. When the moon was high, Aragorn finally halted, breathing hard, his form almost invisible in the darkness. Gimli doubled, hands on his knees, too tired to complain. Sakhra herself fought the urge to collapse to the ground, if only to serve her pride. Only Legolas seemed untouched, still staring at the horizon, not a single golden hair out of place.

"Get some rest," the ranger said, surveying the land around them. It was a good place to stop, protected on two sides by thick bushes and a rocky overhang that blocked the worst of the wind. "We set out at first light."

"I'll take the watch," Legolas said evenly, smirking a little when he saw relief cross Sakhra's face. He knew even Aragorn would be loathe to stand guard tonight, while it would be nothing to do it himself.

"And I was just about to offer," Gimli crowed, settling against the grass. "Ah well."

"You can take tomorrow," Sakhra chuckled, settling down next to the dwarven furnace. Her desert blood was already running thin and without a fire it would be cold indeed. Gimli didn't respond to her jibe – he was already asleep, snoring softly, his beard rippling with every breath.

Smiling, Sakhra tucked her chin and drew her cloak around her arms. Darkness fell across her thoughts quickly, but one image stayed with her: Legolas, silhouetted against the moonlight, his gaze everywhere and nowhere, on her and on the horizon.

That night he heard the names again, repeating like a song or a prayer. And at the end of each verse, the one he had come to know so well. _Farzane._ She said it with clenched teeth and a furrowed brow, not like the others. This was not a wisp of words, a sorrowful memory like all the rest. No, Farzane was something else. _Someone else._

And to his great surprise - and his own grief - a name he recognized had joined the list. _Boromir._ When he heard the Gondorian's name pass from her lips, he had to stand and stare into the moon, trying to push away his own sorrow.

It seemed only half a heartbeat before Aragorn was shaking her shoulder, rousing her from sleep. Despite every bone in her body protesting, she rose, feeling all the aches and pains that seemed to spring up overnight. But she bit back a wince and prepared herself quickly, ready to be on the move again. She allowed herself a mouthful of water and a corner of lembas, enough to sustain a desert girl for many days. Gimli was a bit more greedy, gulping at water like a dwarf possessed.

"The Uruks will have stopped for a while the evening, if they're anything like orcs," she said, remembering her travels with such foul company. Orcs were fast and hardy, but quick to complain. "Even though they can travel in day light, they would not run into the sunset. It would blind them."

"Their nest should not be hard to spot," Legolas agreed from somewhere behind. Sakhra spun, only to find him crouched on the overhang, his eyes trained on the horizon again. _He knows I wanted to leave. He cannot even look at me._ "It will tell us how far ahead they are."

And then he sprung like an arrow from the bow, charging over the rolling slopes of grass. Aragorn was quick to follow, and then Sakhra and a grumbling Gimli. But they soon found their rhythm, and like she did in every battle, for every contract, Sakhra ignored her pain.

The nest lay some leagues ahead and Sakhra judged the Uruks to be more than a day away. _So fast_ , she lamented, feeling her heart drop in her chest. _At this rate, we will never catch them._

Aragorn knew it too, though he did not voice the concern aloud. If he spoke the words, they might become true, and that he could not bear.

Sakhra remembered the tortures she witnessed in Harad, some at the end of her own blade. She knew the hobbits' fate would be far worse in the hands of the White Wizard, with all the evil of Mordor and Isengard to tear them apart. Worst of all, they would reveal the quest. How could they not, in the face of such pain? _And then the Ring will be lost. All will be lost._

The farther they ran from Amon Hen, the more the Ring's call dimmed. It was still there, a shadow of a ghost, a call across a great gulf, but she could ignore it now. Even when she dreamed of the Ring, of creeping away from the Hunters and chasing down Frodo, she was able to push the thoughts away. Now she welcomed the faces of the many, even Farzane. She preferred those nightmares.

They did not stop that night, and no one complained. They knew what it would mean to stop.

The next day was harder, harder than she ever knew it could be, but they never slowed. Still Legolas had not looked at her and the anger she felt for him – _I was right to leave and he knows it_ – fueled her sprint. It was better than her water or the lembas. _I was not weak then, and I am not weak now._

She did not realize that, while the elf did not look upon her, he was always listening. He heard her breath hitch when they climbed a rise, or the way her heartbeat thrummed. The dwarf nearly drowned her out with his rattling wheeze, but he could still hear her beneath it all. Legolas thought he would lose her back at the river, before Aragorn decided to let Frodo go, and he did not intend to do so again.

Now the forest was gone entirely, revealing a harsh landscape strewn with boulders. It looked like a sea of grass, its waves frozen in time. There was little cover for the Uruks now and at the crest of every ridge, Legolas spotted them against the far horizon. They were a dark stain, a scourge, and he felt every blade of grass that bemoaned their coming.

Despite their sharp eyes, Sakhra and Aragorn were not so gifted as Legolas. They could not see the pack far head and so kept their eyes to the trail. Aragorn kept his wits about him, unaffected by the sprinting hunt, but Sakhra could not help but fade. She closed off her mind, retreating inward, even as her legs continued to run.

In the haze of her sprint, her mind wandered and her vision seemed to shift. The cloudy sky turned bright blue, the grasses gold, and she was no longer running. Now she sat astride her horse, the inky black sand-mare she knew like her own face. They raced across the dunes, cresting each ridge with hearts beating as one. The sky faded to black overhead, to the stars she had not seen in years, and it made her want to cry. Slowly, the stars seemed to move, sliding across the sky to take on familiar constellations. The horse was no more, disappearing on a cold breeze, and the sands grew into long grass. The sun rose red before them, and the stars of the West faded. This was not Harad anymore.

This was Rohan.

"Home of the horselords," Aragorn panted, allowing himself to pause atop the rise that marked the boundary of the country. This was a land he knew well, a land he had fought for many years past, and it gave him a small comfort. He shaded his eyes, hoping to see across the tawny landscape, but again, his human blood failed him.

Legolas was not so affected. He pranced from rock to rock, climbing to the top of a boulder, to allow himself better view. The Uruks were closer today, and it cheered him. "The Uruks turn northwest," he said, pointing out their path. His happiness quickly faded when he remembered their aim. "To Isengard."

"If they cross the Isen, they will be lost to us," Sakhra muttered, remembering her own journey through the Gap of Rohan. She had barely slipped past, despite her speedy horse and her own skill. Now the jaws of Saruman had grown wider and they threatened to swallow the hobbits whole.

"It will not come to that, lass," Gimli wheezed, leaning on his axe. "By Durin, I will not run for three days on end only to fail."

Aragorn tensed, ready to spring forward again, but something checked his pace. He dropped to a knee, eyes alight, and pawed at the muddy ground. Something green and silver winked in the morning light, greeting him like an old friend.

_A brooch of Lothlorien_ , she knew, touching the identical clasp at her throat.

"Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall," Aragorn murmured, pulling the ornate piece from the ground. He turned it over in his hand, examining it thoroughly. Ripped fabric still clung to the silver in gray-green wisps.

"They know we're coming," Sakhra said, unable to stop a smile from rising. "They're leaving a trail."

Aragorn nodding, his own grin difficult to hide. "Less than a day ahead of us now. We're gaining on them."

"At this pace, we bloody better!" Gimli growled.

But his companions were already running, spurred on by the brooch and by new hope.

With a roar he charged after them, half rolling down the hill in pursuit, grumbling all the way.

* * *

It was midday when Legolas heard the hooves, a hundred strong and moving fast. The clink of armor and spears came next, paired with the shouts of menfolk.

"Riders," he said aloud, pointing at the top of a hill. He turned, expecting to see Aragorn at his side, in his usual place, but the man was already scrambling for cover in the rocks. Instead, Legolas's eyes met Sakhra's for the first time in days. He was stricken by the rage he saw there, but had no time to question her. She pushed past him, careful to keep her distance, following Gimli into hiding.

She kept her eyes fixed on the top of the hill, not allowing herself to watch Legolas deftly slip into the rocks. With his gray cloak and natural grace, he seemed made of wind. Then she heard the riders too and all thoughts of him were chased away.

Aragorn held his breath, his muscles tense and ready. If the riders were not friendly, if they were Men of Saruman or even Mordor, the Hunters would be hard-pressed in battle. But this was Rohan, a land long accustomed to war, with hardy soldiers to protect their borders. The riders must be the Rohirrim, and therefore they must be friends.

Friends or not, Sakhra reluctantly drew her veil into place. Riders would not look kindly on a woman in her position, and would not tolerate a Haradrim at all. Best disguise herself while she could, for she was not so long in friends as the ranger.

"Not that again," Gimli grumbled, nudging her with his shoulder, but she shook him off. As much as it pained him to see the veil, Legolas said nothing. He understood her trepidation, because he shared it.

The Rohirrim were not so kind to Elves as other Men of the West. They were a rougher people with rougher superstitions; they did not understand his kin or look upon them kindly.

When the first riders charged over the hill, their golden hair and green banners flying, Aragorn's suspicions were confirmed. There was no mistaking it – the Rohirrim had come. It was an entire eored by the looks of it, one hundred and twenty strong, led by a broad, tall man in red leather armor. His mount was gray and muscular, one of the finest war horses he'd ever seen. _Royalty_ , Aragorn knew.

And with that, he stepped out from the rocks, shouting aloud for all to hear. "Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?"

Sakhra cringed at the sound, having hoped to avoid this all together. But she stepped out with the others, falling in at Aragorn's side. If she was not so apprehensive, she would have wondered at the movement of the eored, swarming like a school of fish. They turned as one and with remarkable skill, surrounded the Hunters.

Spears came next, jutting in at every angle, backing them into each other. Aragorn raised his hands, perplexed at such a greeting, and Sakhra resisted the urge to hit him over the head. Instead she pulled away from a sharp spear and found herself back to back with the elf, his hand grazing her own. Again she felt the shock of energy that passed between them, like in Lothlorien. Now she barely noticed it, more concerned with the spear in her face.

The leader of the eored rode forward through the throne, pushing his way towards them. He glared down from on high, his dark eyes flashing behind a helmet carved in the likeness of a horse. In fact, everything from his sword hilt to his armor seemed equine in nature. He even breathed like a horse, with heavy, hard pants. _He must smell like horse too_ , Sakhra thought, resisting the urge to turn away. Luckily, he did not scrutinize her so closely, his eyes fixed on Legolas.

"What business does an elf, two men and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?" he demanded, letting his horse stomp inches from their feet. No one flinched. "Speak quickly!"

Gimli rolled his shoulders and smoothed his beard, an annoyed look on his face. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine," he replied. Though his tone was agreeable, his more aggressive intention was plain.

The rider responded in kind, almost leaping from his horse. His hand grazed his sword and Sakhra did the same, reaching for her dagger beneath her cloak. Gimli was not so affected, even planting his axe against the ground in a picture of leisure.

"I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground," the rider growled.

Faster than she thought possibly, Legolas's bow was drawn and nocked, an arrow to the string but inches from the rider's face. "You would die before your stroke fell," the elf said coolly, even as the riders all around prepared to strike.

_I will not die over this_ , Aragorn groaned in his head. He stepped forward as quickly as he could, putting himself between the rider and the arrow. Legolas lowered his bow slowly, but kept the rider's gaze with such fire even Sakhra felt its heat.

"I am Aragorn, Son of Arathorn," he said, gesturing to himself in an attempt to diffuse the matter. "This is Gimli, Son of Gloin, Legolas of the Woodland Realm and," he faltered, just a little, and waved a hand at Sakhra. "Sakhra of Harad."

_He is too honest for his own good_ , she thought, but begrudgingly pulled away the veil to reveal herself. A murmur went through the eored and the spears around her did not know what to do. Some lowered, some grew closer – she was a woman, but a Haradrim. Harmless, but a danger.

"We are friends of Rohan," Aragorn continued, using the most kingly voice he could muster. "And of Theoden, your king."

The rider surveyed her with a sharp eye but the mention of the king seemed to soften him some. He sighed and removed his helmet, revealing a young face lined with more worries than he had the years for. "Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe," he said, brushing a wisp of hair from his face. "Not even his own kin."

Sakhra wracked her memory, trying to think of the contracts again. There were not many for the lords of Rohan, but enough. For Theoden, the king, and Theodred, his heir. _But this man does not have the heir of a prince, even of this ruddy country._

But the rider answered the question for her. "I am Eomer, son of Eomund, the king's nephew by way of his sister."

"What ails King Theoden?" Aragorn pressed, and even Eomer could see the concern in his eyes. "What's happened to him?"

"Saruman the White has poisoned his mind," he breathed, his voice almost breaking. This was an evil he knew firsthand. "He uses my uncle as a puppet now, to destroy this country from within. My company are those loyal to Rohan and for that, we are banished."

_Saruman's influence has spread farther than I feared_ , Sakhra thought, her eyes searching through the throng of riders. She saw a brokenness in them, the place that hope once was. All were dirty, their armor stained, their horses sweating. These were good men on the brink, ready to fall.

But her pity dissolved when Eomer moved to stand before her, his eyes running over every inch of her face with nothing but hatred. "The White Wizard is cunning," he growled, prowling around her like a bird of prey. "Everywhere his spies slip past our nets."

She felt Legolas tense next to her, his bow still in hand. Without thinking, she pressed a hand to his arm, holding him back. "You think Saruman is foolish enough to send a Haradrim spy into _Rohan_?" she replied, calm as ever. "I don't exactly blend in."

To her surprise, the tempestuous rider did not shout or growl as he did before. Instead, one side of his mouth twitched, almost betraying a smile. "I suppose not."

She ducked her chin in a tiny nod, and as one, the riders around her seemed to relax, even pulling back their beloved spears. As they moved, she caught a familiar sight and scent – blood. _Uruk blood._

"We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain," she heard Aragorn say, even as her mind put the pieces together.

"You fought them in the night?" she blurted out, now seeing the dim stains black blood on every spear and sword. It was even still on Eomer, dark splashes across his greaves where he road through open throats. "Great black beasts, bigger than orcs?"

"We did," he replied, raising an eyebrow at her. "What is it to you?"

"They took two of our friends captive-," Aragorn said, trying to keep his voice level, but the fear was there. It was one they all shared.

Gimli stepped forward, almost pleading. "Did you see two hobbits with them? Halflings, look like children?"

When Eomer shook his head, Sakhra felt as if someone had dropped a cold stone into her stomach. She turned her head, searching for a spot on the ground to stare at. _It's not true_ , she screamed, but her mind knew better.

"We slaughtered the Uruks in the night, we could not see-," Eomer began, looking upon them with something like remorse. "We left none alive." Then he turned, pointing through a gap in the surrounding riders. On the far horizon, a trail of black smoke reached into the sky. "We piled the carcasses and burned them."

There was warmth at her back, barely pressing against her. She knew it could only be Legolas, his body tense and hard as stone in his grief. She could almost hear his jaw tightening against the pain of another loss he did not understand.

"Dead?" Gimli choked out, barely able to speak.

For his part, Aragorn could not speak at all, his eyes fixed on the ground. _We failed. I have failed. Again._

"I am sorry," Eomer said, and he truly was. Then his whistled, high and keen, causing Sakhra to jump in her skin. Only Legolas noticed, but said nothing.

Two horses came forward from the riders, their saddles empty. One was white, the other sorrel, and both were muscular, tall chargers of Rohan. They were well trained, walking up to Eomer with steady steps, and stopped at his shoulders.

"This is Hasufel and Arod," he said, taking their reins in one hand. With a bow of his head, he passed them over to Aragorn. "May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters." Then he drew back on his helmet and turned his broad back, moving towards his mount. He was in the saddle in a flash, with the skill only a Rohirrim could claim. "But do not trust to hope," he warned, looking at them all with a kingly gaze, "It has forsaken these lands."

His horse turned, needing only the slightest of nudges, before galloping away down the hill. The eored followed in a storm of hooves and dust, leaving the Hunters behind.

The stillness that followed seemed odd and heavy, full of grief. Aragorn did not let it settle long. He all but threw Arod's reins at Legolas before climbing into the saddle of the sorrel. "They are alive," he said plainly, before gesturing for Sakhra.

She understood and climbed up behind him, glad to be off her feet. But the price of that, the lives of Merry and Pippin, was far too high to pay.

Legolas and Gimli, with some difficulty, mounted the white horse as well. Despite the added weight, the two horses rode well and strong, covering the distance in no time at all.

In his mind, Aragorn thought of everything but the growing plume of smoke. His mind wandered to Sakhra at his back, noting how she did not even hold onto him, using only her knees to cling to the horse. _She would hold onto Legolas,_ he mused, and silently congratulated himself on avoiding that blunder.


	16. You Were Meant

They flew over the landscape, letting the rise cloud of smoke be their guide. Legolas kept pace evenly, guiding the white horse with whispered Elvish. It was already bent to his will, obeying his every whim, while the sorrel horse seemed more skittish beneath Aragorn and Sakhra. It had already lost a rider to these lands and did not wish to lose another.

The wind shifted, bringing up a warm breeze from the west that made Sakhra's skin crawl. One breath and she could smell it – burning flesh. But this was not the wood smoke of a funeral pyre or even the black stench of roasting skin. These were Uruk-hai and as foul as they were in life, they were fouler in death. She had to duck her head and reattach her veil, but the odor was strong, piercing the fabric with ease. Even Aragorn stiffened as they approached, his hands tight on the sorrel's reins.

When they crested the final rise, a green and gray shadow rose to meet them. It was a great forest, tangled and overgrown, so thick no woodsman could think to cut it down. And in the eaves of the wood, the smoking, stinking pile lay. More than twice a man's height and three times that across, it was a brutal construct of limbs and entrails. Blood stained the golden grass, soaking into the dirt beneath. Legolas could almost hear the earth scream in protest to such an affliction. There was black skin and boiled leather, all stamped with the stark white hand. Indeed, these were the Uruks they pursued, the captors of Merry and Pippin, and the slayers of Boromir.

Sakhra's fist clenched and for a moment, she wished she could've done it herself. She deserved vengeance on these foul creatures and now it would never come.

At the base of the pile, an Uruk head stood on a pike in warning – _the Rohirrim still fight._ Usually the sight would have cheered any righteous heart, but now the Hunters fell into a silent sorrow.

Gimli was the first from the saddle, plodding forward to dig through the bodies. He was careful at first, using his axe to sift through, but grew more desperate as the quiet moments wore on.

Sakhra was loathe to leave the saddle and learn the terrible fate of her friends, but dismounted when Aragorn did. His eyes went to the ground and his hands to the earth, sifting through the burnt grass and blood. She wanted to follow, to try and find their last resting place, but could not find it in her heart to move. All she could do was stare, her eyes fixed on the flames flickering within the unholy mound of beasts.

She could feel his presence at her shoulder, hesitating a few inches away. Legolas said nothing, but then there was nothing to say and she was glad for it. Speaking would only make this more real.

"It's one of their wee belts," Gimli suddenly whispered, his voice breaking. In his hands he held a charred piece of leather, the intricate elven craftsmanship still evident. _The knives of Lothlorien, given by Galadriel herself. This is its fate._

Sakhra was not one for tears, she never had been, but this quest seemed to draw tears from her like blood from a wound. They came slowly, without sound, hot and thick down her cheeks.

Somewhere to her left, Aragorn roared, kicking a helmet in his rage. He fell to his knees, face red with anger, and hid his face in his hands.

This was not like Boromir's death, or even Gandalf's. They were men, able warriors ready to die for their cause. But the hobbits were full of smiles and jokes and warm embraces, not war. Not death. They were meant for warm beds, not the cold sting of steel.

Though Sakhra did not keep many Harad customs, she kept to her prayers. Slowly, she dropped to her knees and bowed her head, letting her hands draw the shapes and her lips mouth the words. Legolas did the same in his own tongue, praying for the souls of the hobbits taken too soon. Again he faced death and again he did not understand. It was not like the elf prince to feel grief, but now he felt its sting in everything, even in what should have given him joy. _Doom waits in every shadow, for each and every person I hold dear._

His hand was cold on her shoulder, like an oasis spring in the desert and she wanted to lean into the touch. But it was fleeting, barely a passing moment, before he was gone again. Now the elf embraced Gimli, forcibly stopping him from tearing through the carcasses.

"A hobbit lay here."

Aragorn's voice was soft, but firm. He frowned at the ground, finally having found the tracks they had been seeking for so long. _But too late. Far too late._

"And the other was beside him," he continued, gently turning aside the grass to read the earth beneath.

"The Uruks made camp," Sakhra murmured. She did her best to keep her voice from shaking. Rising to her feet, she brushed away dark tears. "The Rohirrim came on them in the darkness, as Eomer said."

Aragorn nodded, but he was only half-listening. His attention was on the tracks, on piecing together what was probably the last moments of the hobbits' lives. "They crawled," he said, following their path. The others were not far behind, haunting the ranger's steps. "Their hands were bound."

When his grip tightened on a length of rope, his heart leapt in his chest. "Their bonds were cut!" Now he was running, chasing footprints like ghosts. "These tracks lead away from the battle!"

Behind her veil, Sakhra smiled wide and bright. Hope was not something she was accustomed to but, like tears, it had come quite often upon this quest. _Hope remains, while the company is true._ Galadriel's words spoken aloud in Lothlorien echoed now, pulsing with the stone at her neck. _And we are true as we can be._

But Aragorn came to a halt before the dark shadow, his shoulders slumping. His voice betrayed his trepidation. "Into Fangorn Forest."

"Fangorn!" Gimli gasped aloud, and Sakhra did not miss him reach for his axe. In truth, she felt her own shiver at the name. Like the dwarf, she was not accustomed to the black watches of a forest. "What madness drove them in there?'

Her own discomfort was but an afterthought now. Merry and Pippin were alive, and they were within reach. She must only step forward and find them. _I could not protect Frodo, but I will protect them._

So with light steps, she crossed the border of the forest, tearing away her veil as she did so. The elf and the ranger were not far behind, their eyes trained on every flickering shadow, and the dwarf reluctantly brought up the rear.

* * *

It could be night for all she knew. The forest canopy was so thick with leaves the whole world seemed dark, bathed in an odd green light that made every murky. _Mirkwood_ , she remembered, thinking of Legolas's woodland home. _That was worse than this place, so much darker and deeper._ But that was the Greenwood, a place guarded by the strength of elves, and it was not so fearsome at Fangorn.

Aragorn was not deterred by the thick undergrowth and tracked the hobbits like a hound. But the trail was lost not far from the border, and from there he could only follow strange tracks and broken branches. He cursed under his breath, but his resolve never faltered. They were so close. He would not lose them again.

Sakhra made sure to keep clear of the great roots, afraid of becoming tangled in them. There were the stories of course, of trees that moved and talked and took vengeance on woodsmen, but she did not believe them. Still, she could not help but see faces in each trunk and knot of branches. The leaves seemed to whisper without wind, hissing black words no man could understand.

"What do they say?" she asked aloud, turning to one who was not a man.

Legolas was already listening keenly, always in wonder of his woodland friends. He glanced over his shoulder at Sakhra and could not fight a smile. She looked like a shadow in her hood and leathers, but out of place still. A desert in the middle of the trees.

"They say many things. Some speak of days long past, of memories even elves cannot remember," he replied, laying a hand on a nearby trunk. He could feel the life pulsing in it still, but the sensation was weak and sluggish. "This forest is older, much older than me."

She couldn't help but smirk. "And how old is that?" It was something she often wondered, having never known an elf before.

"How old are you?" he replied, a hint of mirth worming into his voice. Now that he knew the hobbits were alive and he was beneath the green light of a forest again, some joy returned to the elf prince.

"Bad idea," Gimli chuckled, clutching his axe to his chest. "Asking a woman her age. Got the scars to prove it."

Her shoulders shook with laughter and she nodded in agreement. "Clearly Master Dwarf has had more dealings with women than an elven prince," she said, patting the dwarf on the shoulder. They laughed together and, to his own dismay, Legolas felt a flush color his cheeks.

It was true, he did not deal with women-folk often. At least, not in the way Sakhra meant. His companions were scouts and bowmen of the Greenwood, and if they happened to be women, so be it. But the women of court were a different tale. Legolas disliked his father's wide hall and the silliness it bred. He was uncomfortable in silks, under the gaze of so many watchful eyes, and shied away from feasts and parties whenever he could. He was more at home in the trees, protecting his homeland from the darkness slowly closing in.

Now he did the same, except this time he was defending Middle-Earth. Sakhra was just another scout, another sister in arms to share battle and camp with. _But that is not true_ , he chided himself. The voice came from deep in his heart. _She is not the same as the ones who came before._

Because she was a human, because she was Haradrim, or because he could not tear his eyes away from her, he did not know.

Legolas was a quiet creature, she knew that from long days in the wild, but the silences that came to him more often were different. More thoughtful and, to her fear, more dark. She did not like them at all and tried to break them whenever possible.

"I'm thirty-six, by Guild reckoning," she said suddenly, her voice crashing through his thoughts. He raised his eyes to find her staring, her look concerned. "They think I was three when I came to them. Luckily the Snakeblood kept good records of his possessions."

"I have no skill in guessing the ages of men," Legolas replied, his head finally clearing, "but I would have thought you younger than that?" Indeed, Sakhra's face did not betray her age at all. There were no lines or spots of age anywhere, even after years under a harsh sun. She looked more like the young ladies still looking for husbands, though he knew she was anything but.

Gimli nudged Legolas with his shoulder. "Maybe we misjudged the elf," he said with a smirk.

Sakhra merely shrugged off what she thought was a veiled compliment. She did not notice Aragorn, another far older than his appearance, watching her shrewdly. "Well, your turn," she goaded.

"Elves do not measure time as mortals do," he sighed, running his hand down the bark of a gnarled tree. A deep gash from an axe cut it deeply and it pained him to see such a thing. "I was very young, an elfling still not permitted to leave my father's halls, when King Ciryandil died in the siege of Umbar. That was the last news of the West we cared to hear, for Sauron soon built a fortress in the Greenwood and it took all my father's attention and skill to keep us safe."

The breath caught in her throat and she struggled to speak around it. "The siege of Umbar?" she gasped, thinking back to lessons learned at the Guild. "That was three thousand years ago!"

"Yes, I believe so." Her wonder was not unusual. Mortals always seemed to react this way, even towards the younger elves.

_But he looks so young, so fair._ Her eyes ran over every inch of him, as if she was seeing it for the first time. There was nothing to mark his age, but she could see the weight of time still. "I would have thought you younger than that," she finally said, repeating his words with a lopsided grin.

It was one he returned in kind.

"It's often said I look half my age," Gimli crowed aloud, prancing a little in his iron shod boots. "One hundred and forty years on this earth, if you can believe it."

She gave him a little tug on his beard, playful as always with the dwarf. "I wouldn't have thought you over sixty, my friend."

It cheered Legolas's heart to see his friends in such a way, without the weight and cares of the last few days, but the feeling did not last. As it did on the banks of the Anduin, a dark shadow crept over his thoughts, warning him of something to come. He turned sharply, his eyes scanning through the trees. He looked past Aragorn, through the leaves and branches, and what he saw made him tremble.

"Aragorn," he called, one hand reaching for his bow. In his haste, he slipped back into Elvish. " _Something's out there._ "

Under different circumstances, she would've been annoyed, angry even at his use of Elvish. But his tone sent shivers over her skin and without thought, Sakhra closed a hand around her sword. Fear was not something she was used to hearing from Legolas Thranduillion.

Aragorn appeared through the gloom like a dark raven, silently returning. " _What do you see?_ "

He could hear the others drawing close, Gimli with his axe and Sakhra her sword. Neither voiced concern but their hearts hammered in ragged unison, betraying their fear. _They should be afraid_ , he knew. Then he glimpsed it again, a white shadow haunting through the trees like a terrible ghost. _Not a ghost._

"The white wizard approaches," Legolas murmured, tipping his head towards the danger.

_The white wizard._ Sakrha almost felt her breath catch in her throat. She thought she would be ready for any enemy but this, a _wizard_ , this was not a foe she could best with steel. _Not even Gandalf could face_ _Saruman._ Her mind flashed back to his imprisonment at Isengard, to the long nights of rain and misery he spoke of. Their fate at the hands of the wizard would be much worse. _And Merry and Pippin are already lost._

For a brief moment, she wished for the simple days, for battles of steel and shadow. It was a life she understood, when she understood _herself_. Now she faced uncertainty around every corner, especially in her heart. _But I am free now. I am no one's sword, no one's slave. I am myself, and my fate is my own._ That, she knew, was worth any danger.

Slowly, with all the determination she had in her shaking fingers, Sakhra's hand drew her daggers. Small, sharp and lethal, they felt right in her hands. _These I understand._

"Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us," Aragorn said, his voice barely a whisper. But his sword sang against its sheath as he grasped the hilt. He was ready. "We must be quick."

With lightning speed and astounding silence, Legolas had an arrow to his bow. His aim was true and deadly, perhaps even for a wizard. Gimli's own throwing axe, a brutal thing, found its way into his hand.

Even as something moved through the undergrowth, a hissing cloak over leaves, Sakhra felt her fear leave her. She was with the Hunters, _one_ of them, part of a deadly force to make greater foes tremble. And she would fall with them, if she had to. _It is the best death I could hope for, a noble end to a deceitful life._

When Aragorn roared aloud, his sword screaming from its sheath, they turned as one. The dagger left her hand before she could even think, cutting through the air with blazing speed. An arrow already whistled, a blur on the wind, and the axe followed. Three sharp ends, three deaths for any other. But the White Wizard, a blinding figure, moved with efficiency and speed. His staff arced, batting the arrow from the air, while the axe shattered against a bolt of light. Her dagger cleaved in two inches from his face, cut by sheer power alone. The final blow came with the clang of Aragorn's sword, now red with inner heat, and too fiery to hold.

"You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits."

The voice that came from the figure was as terrible as she thought it would be, a sound to stir the soul. Still they could not see his face, but she did not need to. The white robe and staff were clearly visible, even as the sun at his back clouded everything else. _We are lost._

Only the ranger found his mettle, braving the anger of a wizard to shout back. "Where are they?" Aragorn demanded, even taking a step forward in threat.

"They passed this way," the wizard replied, and she could almost hear his wicked smile. _He is taunting us, a cat playing with the mouse before dinner._ "The day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"

She fought the urge to cry aloud. Gandalf's riddles were an annoyance on the best of days, but this was excruciating. It seemed Aragorn shared her thought and he threw caution to the winds, goading the wizard. "Who are you?" he yelled. "Show yourself!"

When the white figure shifted, drawing out of the light into their vision, Sakhra wanted to scream. This was Saruman's greatest trick, his last act of evil before killing them all. Not only had he taken Boromir, Merry, and Pippin, but now he took Gandalf's own face. _Or I have simply gone mad._

The truth, the easy truth of Gandalf's survival, did not even occur to her. Not when Aragorn stepped forward into the circle of Gandalf's light or when Legolas sank to his knees. Even Gimli bowed, dropping his mighty axe to the ground.

"It cannot be." She barely heard Aragorn's words, almost frozen in her own mind. _It is a trick, a trap,_ she wanted to shout. But she could do nothing more than stare, fighting the tears, fighting the pain, fighting the old sorrow that Gandalf's death had planted in her heart. _This cannot be._

Tears pricked at her eyes but she would not let them fall. She would not give this trickster the pleasure of her tears. Every instinct in her told her to run, to fight, to save her friends from this spell, but something stayed her hand. Something in the old man's familiar, soft blue eyes.

"Forgive me." Legolas's voice was her anchor, letting her swim back to thought and reason. He was still on the ground, his clenched fists to the earth. "I mistook you for Saruman."

"But I am Saruman," the white figure said with Gandalf's deep but gentle voice. The sound made Sakhra's heart clench. "Or rather, Saruman as he should have been."

_More riddles._ Now they were a comfort.

Her voice felt thick in her throat and she could barely swallow, let alone speak. She was not used to such emotion; first losing Boromir, then the hobbits, but now Gandalf was returned to them. _Gandalf had returned. Gandalf had lived. And with him, hope._

"You fell." Aragorn's voice shook as badly as her hands, but he was still every inch a king. Again, he was closing his mind to the feelings of his heart. He was like a Hasharin in that way, able to distance himself from emotion.

Sakhra was like that once, and though she missed the easiness of that life, the lack of pain and fear, she did not want to return to it. Emotion made her weak, but it also made her strong. She fought harder for herself and her friends, for the Fellowship that had wormed their way into what she thought was a dead heart.

"Through fire and water. From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth." Gandalf answered, his eyes glistening with the fearsome memory. Sakhra remembered the balrog too, and could not fathom how even a wizard could defeat it. "Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again."

"My winged friends spirited me from the peaks, and I came to Lothlorien. There, Lady Galadriel clad me anew, and I became what I am." Now, a bit of his old self returned and he chuckled. "I missed you by mere days, of course. Such is the way of things. You were meant to travel without me, and you were meant to let Frodo go."

His blue eyes bored in Aragorn's, as if he could see all the pain he carried, even he did not allow himself to feel it. In that gaze, Aragorn found understanding, and even absolution. _I made the right choice. I let Frodo go._ He ducked his head, fighting the urge to smile into his cloak. _Hope is returned._

"Was Boromir meant to die?"

Her voice rasped, and she did not mean for it to come out so hard. The words stung her as much as they did Gandalf. He was not hurt by her intention, or even by her distant manner, but by the thought of the Gondorian brought so low. Tempted and killed, as he did not deserve to be.

Gandalf turned away from Aragorn and padded across the forest floor. His cloak made no noise at all, as if it was made of light. She trembled as he took her hand, expecting it to be cold as death, but found nothing but familiar warmth. As with Aragorn, Gandalf saw into her heart and understood the troubles there.

"It is me, my girl," he murmured, putting another hand over her own. It felt like the sun on her skin. "I am Gandalf, the Gandalf I was before, the Gandalf I am now, and the Gandalf I will be."

In her mind, she saw him as she did the first time. A gray man in a gray cloak, half shrouded in ocean mist. She thought him a beggar like the rest at the docks, but quickly learned otherwise. He was a wizard, a trickster, a wise man, and a friend. The first she ever had. And despite the white cloak and the white staff, she saw him underneath. She saw him as he was and as he would be.

"If you die again, I shall kill you," she muttered, trying in vain to brush away a tear.

His laughter shook the boughs above them, and green leaves fell like rain. "If I do, I shall let you."


	17. A Woman Is A Threat To No One

"I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide."

Sakhra could almost laugh at the sound of Gandalf's voice. It was enough to turn the darkness away, forcing it back into the corners of her mind. _The hobbits are safe. They found Gandalf before we did. They are safe. And Gandalf, Gandalf is alive._ That was enough to lift the weight a little, to take some burden from already bent shoulders. Already she could feel herself straighten and life pounded in her blood. Her blade still thirsted for death, but she did not. She had purpose still. _And Boromir would not want me to grieve, to hold onto him until his own demons drag me down._

They walked out of the woods at great speed, eager to be free of the dark woods, to follow the brightness that was Gandalf the White. Aragorn could not hide his smile, despite his best efforts, and Sakhra was pleased to find the ranger had a heart buried deep beneath his leathers. Even Legolas was happy to go; for the first time in his long life, the forest could not hold his heart, not while his friends were near, not while the quest still remained unfinished. Like Aragorn, he wore a smile, and was glad to see Sakhra did too. Her smile had become a rarity after Gandalf's passing, but now it seemed those days were over. The dark time on the river, when her skin paled and her eyes dulled, was gone.

"And where will that tide take us?" Sakhra grabbed a branch and swung herself over a patch of brambles. Another might think her showing off, but she was just excited, overrun with adrenaline, and ready to follow Gandalf wherever he might lead.

Gandalf's eyes twinkled at her, amused by her display of merriment. Though he understood many cultures, the Haradrim were still difficult to predict. A smile could mean death, a tear a spared life, and everything in between. _Shifting as the sands_ , he remembered, thinking back to when he first met Sakhra Shastaskar.

"We go to Rohan now, to defend a kingdom of men from darkness," he replied, breathing deeply. The air was fresh, the plains close. Even now he could see them through the trees, a golden blanket to smother all the world.

Gimli snorted to himself, a little indignant. "I think we met the darkness. It took the form of a rude horse master," he grumbled, thinking back to their ill meeting hours before. "Nothing I couldn't have taken care of myself."

"Eomer of Rohan," Aragorn added, answering Gandalf's quizzical look. "He led an Eored of banished horsemen, all of them armed and hardened."

The wizard's scowl deepened as he quickened his pace. "It's worse than I feared. Eomer is king's blood, a lord of Rohan. If Theoden sent him away, then his mind is truly overthrown."

"Saruman's arm has grown long, if he can affect the king of Rohan," Sakhra said, falling into step next to Gandalf. "What stops him from doing the same to Denethor, or any of us?"

_Us_ hung in the air like a cloud. _Aragorn_ is what she meant, and Aragorn knew it. He tightened his jaw, as if clenching his teeth could chase away the darkness. But in his heart, he wondered. _The Ring is not the only evil in the world._

"Saruman's power is foul and growing," Gandalf replied, spitting out the wizard's name like a bad taste. "But he does not work alone. Someone in the court of Theoden spreads his poison, destroying the king from within."

They stepped out into the sunlight as one, and the relief was easy to see. The horses nickered, still waiting dutifully for their riders, and trotted towards them. Both nosed at Legolas, happy to see the elf again. He raised his hands to their heads, patting them both, murmuring in Elvish to calm the beasts. They had seen death and it haunted them still; for that, he could offer some respite.

Sakhra sighed aloud, turning her face to the sun. Together with the prospect of familiar ground, it cheered her like nothing else.

"A royal court," she chuckled, smirking to herself. "That's something I understand."

Gandalf could not help but nod, knowing all her exploits fully. "Indeed."

"Send me to Edoras, and I'll have Saruman's man bled by the time you catch up." The words came so easily, the thoughts even easier. _A bit of white powder for my skin, doe eyes, a basket of washing. A stumble and a glint of steel._

Though she spoke with a smile, a smirk even, it did nothing to cheer Legolas. This was a different Sakhra, the one hidden in memory and shadow. A woman who cared nothing for the lives of men, who delighted in their end, who did not fear the rattle of a dying breath. For an elf so in love with life and living things, it made him uneasy. _This is who she is. She told you herself. She showed you in every swing of the blade._ But then her foes were orcs and Uruk-Hai, bleak creatures, not people. Not hearts and souls.

_You are afraid of her._ Another part of him answered, speaking inside his head. _I am afraid_ for _her. Who knows where this path my lead?_

"Who's to say you go?" Gimli crowed, planting his axe in the ground. "I'll fell the weasel like a sapling, and in half the time."

Sakhra could barely contain her laughter and clapped a hand to Gimli's armored shoulder, shaking him a little. "A dwarf in the Golden Hall. Not exactly subtle. Even with the sharpest of axes, the lightest of steps, he'll see you coming." He only grumbled in response. "Finally, I might be of some use."

"You have been of use already," Legolas said quickly, though his face showed no evidence of the words. She merely shrugged off the compliment, more focused on Gandalf.

The wizard was not so keen to respond. Sakhra's use, he knew, lay somewhere far from death, but to what end, he could not say yet. And the less she fell back into her old life, the better. That was a road clouded by darkness, awash in blood. It was a road he could not let her take.

"Of use you shall be, but not yet. I must see the king, and throw away the yoke of Saruman myself." His words were final, she knew, and she had no heart to argue now that she had him back. "Besides, you would find the court of Edoras simple. People speak plainly. Intrigue is rare. Assassinations are few and far between."

She clucked her tongue and shrugged. The sorrel horse reacted to the sound, turning his head towards her. She patted him with an outstretched hand, enjoying the feel of horse. "Sounds like a boring place."

"And," he added, chucking her under the chin. "You could never outrun me."

"Have you grown wings since last I saw you?" Sakhra quipped, turning to find Gandalf staring into the wind.

"After a fashion," he said, and whistled pure and keen.

The sound carried over the plains, echoing in every hollow, off every rock. A breeze carried it far and away, to the river and the mountains beyond. It was sharp but clean, like cold water from a spring. And what answered was like snow, like clouds, like the wind made into flesh.

"That is one of the Mearas," Legolas breathed, staring at the galloping creature. Its motions were slow and graceful, but somehow it moved with terrible speed. He was a white stallion, incomparable, the pinnacle of power and speed.

Gandalf stepped forward, one snow-cloaked arm outstretched. The horse came willingly, nosing into his embrace. Though it had the pride of a king, it was but a pet in Gandalf's hands. "His name is Shadowfax, and he is the lord of all horses. Even your famed sand-mares are no match for him," he added, throwing a pointed look at Sakhra.

"Give me a sand-mare and we shall find out," she replied, invigorated by Gandalf's goading. Despite the white cloak, he was himself again. He had not changed.

_She has not changed,_ Gandalf thought, and chuckled inwardly. "Well, they both came at my call, but-," he looked away, turning his gaze back to the hill. "Ah, there we are. A bit slow for my taste."

A slight, black shadow flew over the golden landscape, as twisting and beautiful as smoke.

If Shadowfax was the wind, Ashere was the storm that came behind. Her mane had grown long and thick, nourished by Elvish stables, and her coat still gleamed, but there was mud on her hooves and dust on the saddle. Shadowfax bore no evidence of his long journey, but Ashere wore them plainly. Long miles she had run, with a Mearas to set the pace.

Legolas thought he had seen Sakhra smile before, but this was something entirely different. Her grin showed more teeth than he thought possible, splitting from ear to ear, and her whoop of celebration came in Haradaic, too fast for him to understand. She threw back her hood and her braid came free, as black as her horse's mane. In an instant the horse was in her arms, her small hooves prancing as she nuzzled her mistress.

"Ashere," she breathed, and the horse even smelled familiar. There was lavender from Rivendell and mallorn from Lothlorien, but beneath, salt, heat, sandgrass – everything she once knew.

"You left Rivendell, you silly girl," she scolded, though her tone was light and pleased. "Couldn't stay still, could you?"

"Just like her rider," Gimli chuckled.

"A remarkable beast. She was waiting in Lothlorien, where the Elves released her into my care," Gandalf explained as she took the horse by the reins, leading her back to the Hunters.

Ashere whinnied at the other horses, unafraid, and showed no favor to Sakhra's companions. Even Legolas. It was not often a horse favored another over Legolas, but sand-mares were not common steeds. Raised in the dunes, bred to ride fast and far, they knew nothing of elves or their tongue. It was Haradaic they understood, and to the Haradrim they owed their allegiance.

Long generations in the desert where speed could mean the difference between life or death bred, not the fastest horses, but the most enduring. They could run for days on little water and less food, crossing deserts and dunes where no other animal could. Shadowfax was power made flesh, but Ashere was small and slender, with bright as stars. If the Mearas were the kings of horses, sand-mares were the swift-footed queens.

"A beautiful horse," Aragorn said. He couldn't help running a hand over the black mare, marveling at the gloss beneath his fingers. Black horses were rare in the West, as most were taken from the herds by Mordor, raised to be servants of the Dark Lord. But there was no evil red gleam in this one's eyes. It was a creature of the South, of the East, but not of Sauron. "I've never seen a sand-mare before, not even when I traveled in Harad long ago."

"And you'll never see another of her quality," Sakhra said proudly. "In the South, a good mare is more valuable than a mumak. Bloodlines are jealously guarded and well-traced. My Ashere is the daughter of war chargers and desert racers. She might not be able to outrun your Shadowfax, but she'll come closer than any other. And she'll go farther."

Legolas could not help but feel a warmth deep in himself. Moments ago, Sakhra's words had chilled him. Her past was unsettling at best. But now, with a piece of her path alive and prancing before them, she seemed happier than ever, without the shadow of the past. _Not all of her memories are evil, just as she is not evil._ Despite the horse's suspicion of elves, he ran a hand down Ashere's muscular neck, whispering in Elvish as he did so.

The horse snorted in response, not frightened, but puzzled by this new language. Sakhra cold not help but laugh. "Your tricks won't work on this one," she said, silently delighting in Legolas's failure. _Ashere knows better than to fall for the likes of you._

"She wouldn't be the first," Legolas murmured, and Sakhra did not miss his veiled meaning. Neither did Aragorn, but he held his tongue.

As a dwarf, Gimli held no love for horses. To him, they all seemed the same: skittish and noisy and far too tall. "I assume you paid for this one in full," he said with a little gleam in his eye.

Again, Ashere snorted loudly, and they all laughed.

"Someone did," Sakhra retorted, before swinging herself into the saddle. The leather beneath her was Elvish, carved in the manner of Lothlorien, and it felt wrong on her horse. But that was the least of her troubles.

* * *

Sand-mares were bred to run in sand, over harsh terrain few animals could traverse. Over the dunes they raced; over the sloping plains of Rohan, they flew. And with Sakhra back in the saddle, her able hands and familiar weight guiding every step, Ashere exploded with joy. Though the four riders traveled through the night, their horses never tired, even Hasufel carrying both Gimli and Legolas. Sakhra was careful to give Ashere free rein and, in the dark night, the others often lost sight of the swift shadow.

But not Legolas. Even when Ashere pulled away, eager to circle a hill or gallop over a stream a league away, he kept her in sight. From afar, he watched Sakhra throw back her head and stare at the stars. Once or twice, she even laid back in the saddle, her body flat against Ashere's, never breaking pace.

Dawn came too soon for him and with it, Edoras. It rose from the valley in a massive spit of rock, and thatched roofs gleamed in the early morning sun. Above all, the Golden Hall of Meduseld glittered brightest, gleaming like the jewel at Sakhra's throat.

Sakhra could not help but scowl at the approaching court. Though she had smirked and joked before, it was only a ruse. Her old life and anything that might remind her of it put a sour taste in her mouth and a pain in her heart. And despite Gandalf's assurances, she could not shake the feeling that this place would draw her back into the dark web of her past.

Her shoulders squared, her posture stiffened, and Legolas noticed. After months of travel, he had become intoned to Sakhra's tendencies, small and guarded as they were. And right now, she was afraid. _But of what?_ Saruman's spy, the Rohirrim, even a king should not frighten her so. And yet her eyes darkened and she drew the hood back over her head. _At least she hasn't returned to the veil._

"The gates are closed," Aragorn said when they came to a stop on a rise "They will not be kind to visitors."

Sakhra scoffed to herself. "They never are."

"When Theoden is free, he will welcome us with open arms," Gandalf assured, his eyes flashing. In the daylight, with his white cloak and staff, he looked like a blinding star.

_Surely all of Edoras can see him,_ Sakhra thought. _The White Rider comes._

Aragorn was right, and only Gandalf's quick tongue saved them from being locked out. The guards were particularly wary of Sakhra and Legolas, their blue eyes following the pair as they entered on horseback. One even spit at her horse's hooves, but Sakhra kept her eyes forward and her mouth shut. In another life, she would've cut his throat for such an offence. _But that life is gone._

"Brown whore," the guard hissed, before slamming shut the gates again. She barely flinched at the sound. _I've heard worse from worse men_.

But Legolas had not. He didn't miss the way her hands knotted into Ashere's mane, her knuckles turning white with anger. Without thought, he reached out and put his hand over her own.

It was a brief, fleeting moment, but enough. She almost sighed with relief when he didn't speak, for no words were needed. For a moment, she thought he meant to still her, to stop her from silencing the guard forever, but the anger in his eyes said differently. _He is trying to stop himself._

_I could put an arrow through the slat in the gate_ , he thought, his mind pulsing with rage like he'd never known before. _Through his throat, so that he might never speak again._

"He's a guard on the watch," she muttered, shifting so that her hand pulled away from his. "Let him think what he wants. I've heard much worse."

_How can she say that,_ he wanted to ask. _How can she allow such a slight against her honor?_ _I can hardly bear it, but she carries on._ "Very well," he said instead, his voice hard through gritted teeth.

Aragorn did not turn around to watch this display, not wanting to bring more attention to Sakhra's embarrassment then there needed to be. But he knew his friend well enough to know what anger boiled beneath blue eyes and blonde hair. The elf was not so calm and level as his kin, particularly where friends were concerned.

"I noted his face and shield," Gimli said suddenly, his rough voice a welcome break. "He'll soon be begging your pardon, if my axe has anything to say about it."

Sakhra nodded, forcing a smile. "Let it pass," she replied, turning her face forward. "He makes no difference to me."

At that moment, the sun broke through white clouds above, illuminating the company and the city as it opened before them. The main street was stone, lined by thatch and wood buildings, all of them carved with horses. This was nothing like the cities of Gondor or even the Harad coasts, but it bustled still. Old women carried washing while men shoed horses or worked the forge. A few children flitted through the alleys, chasing chickens and dogs. Edoras quieted as they passed, with many stopping to watch the strange line of travelers. Every face stared, wondering at the wizard, the dwarf, the elf, the man, and the dark maiden. _You must wear many masks_ , Sakhra thought, remembering her old lessons. _Most important of all is your own face, and what you make of it._

Sakhra tipped her head and lowered her hood in swift motion, revealing her face for all to see. Elsewhere, the others would be cheered by an action, but here, amongst so many strangers, it was puzzling. Sakhra liked to remain hidden, and now it seemed she was doing the opposite. She even unbraided her hair, letting it fall in black sheets over one shoulder. And Legolas averted his eyes when her hands strayed to her collar, unlacing the top stays of her leathers to reveal her collarbone beneath. A tattoo glistened there, black and twisting, another piece of the puzzle that was Sakhra Shastaskar.

"A woman is a threat to no one," she explained, keeping her voice low.

Ahead of them, Gandalf turned in his seat. "The more womanly she looks, the more dangerous she is," he added, winking a little at Sakhra. "I learned that lesson myself in Pelargir."

She pursed her lips, hiding a smile as she fixed her hair and cloak. "Many have learned that lesson."

Despite the dark meaning, Legolas could not help but smirk a little. His mind strayed to the halls of his father, and how she would be required to dress there. _She would be more dangerous than Sauron then._

At the peak of the hill, beneath the steps of Meduseld, they halted the horses and dismounted. Stable boys sprang from an alcove, rushing forward to take the horses. Sakhra was loathe to see Ashere go, but one well placed glare put the fear of Harad in the boys.

"The sons of Rohan are able horse lords, even the boys," Aragorn said, chuckling to himself. "No need to frighten them."

"But I enjoy it," she replied, flashing an exaggerated pout that was very unlike her. _A woman is a threat to no one._ And there were many guards here around the Golden Hall, looking for threats.

A few even barred the door, not moving an inch as they ascended the steps. Gandalf himself led them, and still the guards did not move from their post.

"I cannot allow you before Theoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame," said the door warden, and his voice did not quaver. Even in the face of a wizard and his companions, the guard was Rohirrim to the bone, with a will to match. "By order of Grima Wormtongue," he added, his face twisting with distaste.

_Saruman's spy no doubt,_ Sakhra thought, noting the guard's discomfort.

"Very well," Gandalf replied, nodding at the others. He moved first, unbelting his mighty sword Glamdring and handing it over to the guard.

Aragorn followed, passing away both his sword and his Elven dagger with as much of a grimace his pride would allow. Legolas did the same with his knives, spinning them once or twice for good measure, but gave them willingly. His bow was another issue and his hand lingered, gripping the Galadhrim gift. When he finally gave it over, Sakhra didn't miss the tightening of his jaw. Gimli was even worse, blustering and hawing over his axes. There was his long-axe, his throwing axes and tiny finger axes Sakhra had never seen before.

All of it seemed to shock the guards, but not the warden of the door. His eyes remained on Sakhra, waiting patiently. "My lady, your weapons."

Her ruse had not worked as well as she hoped, but she kept her face still. "Yes, of course," she purred, and unbelted her sword. The Hasharin dagger came next, but nothing else. There were many more, of course, but hidden from view, in her sleeves, her boots, and even her leathers.

This the others knew well, but said nothing. Only Gimli's smirk, hidden beneath his beard, and a twinkle of Gandalf's eye escaped them.

"Your staff," the warden prodded, throwing out an arm before Gandalf could walk past.

"What?" the wizard said, and his voice was suddenly rougher, weaker even. "Surely you would not part an old man from his walking stick?"

Sakhra had to turn her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing. _I am not the only one wearing a mask._

Here the door warden faltered and finally nodded, wrenching open the great doors of Meduseld. They were carved with white horses and stern kings, the faces of old conquerors and heroes. But inside was dark and smelled old, heavy with smoke and days long past. To Sakhra, it was like a tomb to hold the living.

The king sat on his throne at the far end of the hall, though he looked more like a pile of wrinkles and fur. An oily man sat at his right, clutching the arm of the throne with pale, white fingers. A few courtiers, rough as their country, waited to petition the king by the hearth fire, while more idled in the shadows. She did not miss the hard men among them. Though they were not guards, they carried weapons and their eyes glinted with a harsh light.

Wormtongue whispered something to the king, but Sakhra could not catch his voice above the echo of their own footsteps. She was sure Legolas did, though he was now masquerading as Gandalf's nursemaid. The wizard clutched to the elf's arm and leaned heavily, masking the strength she knew coursed through him.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Theoden King," the wizard said, though his glare was saved for Wormtongue.

In the shadows, the hard men followed, coming into focus. _Thugs, hired from every ditch and hovel._ Sakhra flexed her fingers at her side and could not hide her smile. The dark corners of a throne room were familiar to her; this was a game she knew how to play.

"Why should I welcome you?" the king wheezed, his watery blue eyes fighting to stay open. He looked liable to die at any moment. "Gandalf Stormcrow."

"A just question, my liege," the snake hissed, standing from his seat. Despite his weedy appearance, he spoke with the strength of an army. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is an ill news."

_That man will loose a few teeth before this day is done_.

"Be silent," Gandalf fired back, and drew his arm from Legolas. His back straightened and his voice quaked. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!"

Suddenly, Wormtongue's eyes widened. "His staff," he muttered. Then his voice rose to a shout that roused the room. "I told you to take the wizard's staff!"

_They can try._

The thugs outnumbered them three to one, easy odds for such a band. They came in a mindless drove, with no thought or strategy, just big, mindless brutes. Most went for Gandalf, following their master's order, but found an elf, a ranger, and a dwarf in the way. They were dealt with swiftly and harshly, falling to the stone floor in groaning piles of leather and bruises.

Two came for her, leering with yellow smiles and outstretched hands.

"There's a pretty," one growled, grabbing her shoulder. She broke his hand with a twist, then kicked him across the face for good measure. He crumbled to the floor, eyes shut and mouth bleeding.

The other tackled her bodily, using his weight and height to bring her down, but she controlled the momentum. When they crashed to the floor, she let herself roll, and ended up on top of him, her knees pinning his arms. He howled once before she slammed his head against the flagstones.

The third she did not see, and he grabbed her around the throat. It did not matter much, for the fight was done, his companions fallen. He was the last left standing, and so all saw Sakhra Shastaskar twist out of his grasp. She fish-hooked his cheek, two strong fingers in his mouth, forcing the man to scream as she led him towards a pillar. His head connected with a sick sound before he too fell to the floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the door guards watching, their eyes wide, as well as the many courtiers. _Good_. _Let them know who and what I am._

To her dismay, she saw Gimli had already gotten to Grima before she could. One iron shod boot sat on his chest and he cowered like the worm he was. She stopped at Gimli's shoulder and stared down at the pale beast.

"Try to run," she goaded, enjoying the surge of energy she felt from the battle. To her dismay, Grima did nothing but shake.

Gandalf had already climbed the dais, his staff but inches from Theoden's face. "I release you from this spell," he said, reaching forward, but the king shrank from his touch.

"You have no power here," the king laughed, his voice poisoned with dark and evil magic. "Gandalf the _Grey!_ "

With a sneer, Gandalf moved back, pulling off his darker cloak, to reveal snow-white robes beneath. They caught the light of the dying fire and the few windows, becoming bright as the sun.

"I will draw you Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound," Gandalf the White growled, throwing his staff forward. The strength of it pushed Theoden back in his chair, his crown rattling against the wooden throne.

Another white shape streaked across Sakhra's vision, but this was no power of Gandalf's. She had blond hair and a fair face, but her air was stern and kingly. Aragorn grabbed her by the arm, stopping her from reaching the king. "Wait," he said, holding her firm.

More words passed between Gandalf and the parasite of Saruman, but only Theoden seemed to be weakening. Finally Gandalf yelled aloud, his arms raised. "Be gone!" and something snapped within the Rohirrim king. He sank back in his throne, hands over his face, but as he straightened, something strange happened.

Sakhra knew the wonders of Gandalf firsthand, but this was something marvelous on its own. Age fell from the old king like dust. His hair ran golden, his mottled skin cleared and a keen blue light returned to his eyes. Even his breath was stronger as he was returned to his old self.

Aragorn could hold the maiden no longer and she leapt forward, rushing to her king. Tears fell plainly as she smiled, overcome with joy and hope. Theoden was himself again.

The king smiled down at her, then his eyes passed to Gandalf. For a moment, he seemed confused to see the wizard, as if all that came before had been a dream. "Gandalf?"

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," he replied, and the powerful wizard he was melted back into the old man.


	18. Pieces From The Board

The cheer that came from the return of Theoden was short-lived. Even though Wormtongue was exiled, cast out from Edoras, and the shadow was thrown away, a somber air settled like a dark cloud. The king's son, a prince of Rohan, had died while his father was bewitched, and now his body lay still and cold within the hall of Meduseld. At the news, Theoden grew white and almost frail, the strength in his blue eyes receding. He had no words for this pain and no thoughts as to what must be done. But the pale maiden, another royal child judging by her bearing, was quick to act. Despite her own sorrow, she set to organizing the funeral with a stern will.

Among the black banners being laid out and white flowers gathered, Sakhra began her wanderings. It seemed they would not leave Edoras for some time, judging by Gandalf's mutterings, so it would do her well to know the place.

Meduseld was easy enough to master, with the great hall in the center of two wings. To the west were the kitchens and servants' quarters, as well a path to the barracks and the great stables. The eastern wing was more formal, with bedchambers, private rooms, and, to Sakhra's pleasure, a bath house she meant to take full advantage of in the coming days. She was hastily shown to her own chamber, separate from the others, which smelled of disuse and damp. But the bed was soft and when she threw open the windows, a fine breeze swept through the room. It was a palace compared to the old barracks of the guild, where she slept beneath a crumbling ceiling on nothing but straw and thin rags. And after long days in the wilderness, she had to smile at the sight of a bed and a wash basin.

It took everything in Sakhra not to slump back on the bed and rest, but she could not do so. Sleeping through a prince's funeral, even if she did not know him, would be considered rude. The Hasharina did not want to give the Rohirrim more reasons to dislike her. So instead she cast off her Elven cloak and folded it next to her sword, no doubt brought in by the door warden. A maid had taken the liberty of laying out a simple dress but Sakhra ignored it with a sniff. Surely Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had not been given clothing for a funeral. If their leathers were fine enough, so were hers.

Besides, the dress was long-sleeved and tight, with voluminous skirts. No self-respecting assassin, retired or not, would possibly trap themselves in such a thing. Sakhra Shastaskar had not survived the court of Harad by being a fool and, despite the presence of Gandalf, she would take no chances. Her daggers still hid in her boots and sleeve, just within reach should something go awry.

_Or if another guard can't hold his tongue._

Somehow the man's words still bothered her, even though they were nothing, less than mist or smoke. _Perhaps it is because the others heard him. I have no reason to be ashamed on my own, but in front of them…_

Her head swam with the thought. She traveled with the bravest and most honorable of peoples: a white wizard, the grim heir to the throne of Gondor, an elven prince, and even gruff Gimli was proper as a dwarf could be. In comparison, a woman in tight leathers with dark skin and darker tattoos, she must seem a harlot. _No wonder the guard spoke so plainly._ In another life, she might've used this to her advantage and played into the assumptions of others, but now her pride would not let her. And something she did not often feel curled in her belly. _Shame._

For a moment, she considered the dress again, then set her jaw and nearly ran from the room like a child outrunning a nightmare.

The maids gave her stiff nods as she passed, though many looked annoyed, even offended by her presence. But they said nothing to her. They were women of a royal court and so were well-practiced at holding their tongues.

"Forgive me, my lady." The voice was cold and made Sakhra spin on her heel, turning quickly to see its owner. It was not many who could come upon her unawares. But instead of a fleet-footed kitchen girl or scullery maid, Sakhra found herself looking at a vision of black and gold.

This was the pale maiden, the woman who held onto the king and commanded his house, but she was not his wife. Now instead of white, she wore deep black velvet trimmed with gold flowers to match her bound-up hair. Dressed for the funeral, Sakhra knew.

"I was taken in by the events of the morning and was not able to greet you properly, and welcome you to Meduseld," the woman said, nodding in what Sakhra thought was supposed to be a bow. "I am Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, and niece of King Theoden."

Sakhra returned the gesture, stiffly ducking her head. "May the sands warm you, Lady Eowyn," she replied, using the Haradrim greeting. It would only help her now to play into her heritage, as it was plainly written on her face and actions. "My name is Sakhra Shastaskar, of the Haradrim desert." _There's no need to bore her with the other names_ , she thought, almost smirking to herself.

But instead of bowing again and hurrying off to attend her duties as Lady of Meduseld, Eowyn lingered. Her eyes roved over Sakhra's leathers, and she did not miss the dagger belted at her hip.

The Hasharina expected a sneer or a frightened glance, the usual treatment she received from noble ladies, but Eowyn did neither. Instead she tipped her head, gesturing down the hall. "Would you walk with me, Lady Shastaskar?"

It was an impossible request to deny, albeit a puzzling one. Nodding, Sakhra fell into step next to the maiden, all the while wondering after her game.

"You accompanied Gandalf, Lord Aragorn, the Prince, and Master Gimli across the plains." It was not a question, and there was something Sakhra could not place in the woman's voice.

_From Rivendell_ , Sakhra wanted to say, but she was not so foolish. If Aragorn or Gandalf had not divulged the origins of their Fellowship, Sakhra should not either. "I did. Two of our friends were taken captive by servants of Saruman and we pursued them."

Eowyn's brow raised slightly and she glanced over Sakhra again. "On foot?"

"Three days on foot, and another on horseback."

"And you kept pace with the others?"

_Obviously._ "The dwarf is not hard to outrun," Sakhra said instead, biting back a sharper retort. But Eowyn sensed it anyways.

"Forgive me for my questions, but it's not often we see a woman like yourself." Her voice softened a bit and the lady let a hand trail to her hair. She wound a finger in an escaping tendril, letting it tighten around her like a chain. "You travel with men, armed like a warrior. And you were brutal with Wormtongue's men."

"I don't think so," Sakhra said with a shrug. "I left them alive."

Against her expectations, the Rohirrim maiden seemed to be fighting a smile. "You are quite a sight, Lady Sakhra."

_Lady._ The title made Sakhra's teeth clench, even though she knew Eowyn meant no offense by it.

Of court women, Sakhra had her share. In Harad they were lithe and sly, saying one thing and meaning another, with poison and roses dripping from every word. The Gondorians were less dangerous, but more scrutinizing. A lady of Gondor could smell an outsider from a mile away, making their halls more difficult to penetrate. But Sakhra had never been to Rohan and her studies were little help. There were stories of huts and hovels, thatched halls, pounding hooves, golden kings and the occasional shieldmaiden. But judging by Eowyn and the maids around her, the shieldmaidens were gone.

"Does my appearance offend you, Lady Eowyn?" Sakhra said, treading carefully as they reached the great hall again. Here the crowd of servants was larger, busying themselves with funeral preparations, and the two women were hardly noticed.

Eowyn's voice dropped, barely a whisper, but strong as steel. "Not at all. Once Rohan could claim women like you, ladies of steel and shields, but no longer." Then she fixed Sakhra with a piercing stare. "You'll find no opposition from me, where blades are concerned."

_The shieldmaidens are gone… but not forgotten_ , Sakhra thought as she watched Eowyn return to her work.

* * *

Sakhra's explorations did not take long, and soon enough she found herself in the stables, murmuring with Ashere. It felt good to speak Haradaic with one who understood, even if the conversation was one-sided, and with an animal. She knew the horse understood her and was pleased to see her coat gleam and her eyes brighten. The Rohirrim knew horses better than themselves and the sand-mare was well provided for.

There were other mounts in the crowded stables, and Sakhra could only imagine the bustle of the more public stalls. Even here, in the king's house, on the day of a funeral, the stable teemed with energy and life. Stable-boys oiled tack and spread hay, while Rohirrim men tended to their great stallions. Hasufel and Arod were nearby, pleasantly quiet in their stalls, but another horse, a big red war charger, kicked and screamed against his wooden walls.

Soldiers and stable-hands alike rushed to aid the horse, pulling him from the stall before he could injure himself. Ashere tossed her head as the massive horse was pulled free, still whinnying and fighting. His eyes were wide, his breath heavy – the horse was afraid.

"He lost his rider," a voice said, and it was one she knew very well.

Sakhra spun to see Legolas, one hand packing Arod's neck, the other holding a bag of grain. His piercing gaze was not on her, thankfully, but the red stallion, and his brow furrowed. "It torments the beast. The mounts of the Rohirrim are bonded to their masters in a way that is hard to break. There will be nothing for him but to turn him loose."

"Surely an elf could soothe him a bit," she replied, watching how Arod seemed to melt into his touch. _His hands can be deadly._ She knew this firsthand, but that was not why her gaze lingered, focusing on the swift strokes of his fingers. It was not long before she felt a hot blush tinge her face and she turned away sharply, wishing for her veil.

_What is that for?_ Legolas puzzled, watching her cheeks redden. It was not like Sakhra to blush or turn away, but now she did both. _Perhaps she is still ashamed. The guard at the gate would make anyone blush._ And then he flushed too, remembering the guard's words and his the anger he felt.

"How do you find Meduseld?" he said, prodding gently.

She knew what he was getting at and it irked her. _I don't need him worrying about my feelings._ To keep her hands from shaking, she busied herself with adjusting Ashere's Elven tack. It didn't suit her well."They kept their mouths shut, if that's what you mean."

"Good." Then he heaved a breath, willing himself to continue. "I am sorry for what the guard said-," but she held up a hand. Her eyes were sharp, her face pulled in exasperation. She looked like she did months ago, when she faced down Boromir in those first days of the quest.

"Words do not interest me, Legolas. If they did, I'd still be in Harad cutting through every person who ever called me a whore a or a harlot or a demon or a bed slave, or a thousand worse things." She didn't bother to check her voice, and a few passing men stopped to listen. "You know what we're doing here, what we're trying to achieve. Do you think I _care_ about anyone's opinion?"

_That's not true,_ the voice in her head murmured. _You care about his opinion._ But she gritted her teeth, keeping the words from slipping loose.

The elf shifted, uncomfortable for once. She was right, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it. "And you know me," he replied, finding a fire of his own to match hers. "It is not in my nature to let my friends be treated the way you are."

She wanted to smile at that, but smiling would mean he had won. "Then I'll be sure to visit Mirkwood where your nature holds some sway. But here, in a kingdom of men, you'll just have to control yourself."

His lips twitched, then curved into a smile. In her head, she heard victory bells. "I told you, we call it the Greenwood."

"Don't change the subject."

"Is that what you're wearing to the funeral?"

Legolas laughed outright when she punched his arm.

* * *

The funerals she had attended in Harad were nothing like this. In the South, they were celebrations of life, a feast of sight and sound to send a soul off into the stars. There was singing, drinking, dancing, all of it lasting for days, until the bowls of lit oil burned to nothing. Then they would wrap the body in white silk, kiss the eyes of the departed, and give them back to sand and stars with joyous farewells. But it was not so in Rohan.

All of Edoras partook in the procession, lining the great way down from Meduseld. Peasants and lords alike bid farewell to the prince Theodred, and Sakhra saw a good many girls weeping openly. She followed along with Legolas and Gimli, but Gandalf and Aragorn were farther ahead, accompanying the king and the corpse. Already the Ranger had taken on a more noble air, though he was loathe to admit it. He wanted nothing more than to hang back with the Hunters, to walk with them as he once did, instead of having to avoid the prying eyes of curious courtiers.

When they reached the gates of Edoras, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the stretch of burial mounds that lined the road ahead. White flowers like stars covered the graves, and each looked solemn and ancient. The farthest from the gate was waiting, already crowded by another group of mourners. _Soldiers_. Theodred's men, the ones who remained. Lady Eowyn stood out amongst them, a pillar of wavering strength, and but for her gown, she looked like a soldier too.

The Lady of Rohan sang aloud as the body of her cousin passed, born aloft on the shoulders of stout Rohirrim. The language was harsher than Westron, and Sakhra found she understood pieces of it. _Evil death._

When the body passed her by, its face cold and white and young, Sakhra could not agree more. To her horror, she found herself seeing another face with pale skin and blonde hair. The vision made her breath catch in her throat and fear sang in her blood. It was all she could do to stop from turning to her side and reaching out to Legolas, assuring herself he was still there. She bit her lip, almost drawing blood, and her hand fumbled with the chain at her neck. She drew out Galadriel's gift and closed her hand around the stone, letting its coolness calm her.

Next to her, Legolas shifted, sensing her unease. But at so solemn an affair, he found he could not say anything to calm her. Instead, he let a hand rest at her side, his fingers barely touching her inner arm. To his surprise, she did not flinch away.

Gimli's own attention was across the mouth of the tomb, on the dead-eyed king who could barely watch as his son's body entered the black embrace of darkness and death. The king's body had been healed by Gandalf, but what of his mind? _Where will this road lead?_

He glanced back at his companions, wondering if they saw the danger too, but instead found them both staring at the yellowed ground, with Legolas's hand between them. _I already know where that road goes_ , he thought. Anywhere else, he would have laughed aloud.

Long they stood, listening to Eowyn and the soldiers sing, watching the king struggle to understand. Finally the mourners left, turning to march back to Meduseld, and only Gandalf and the king stayed behind.

Free to join his friends again, Aragorn was soon at their side. He looked cleaner than he had in months and Sakhra supposed he had taken full advantage of the bathhouse. _Already acting like a king_ , she thought, _as much as he might hate to admit it._

"Theoden will not abide the death of his son," Legolas said aloud, but his gaze was forward. They were approaching the gate. If the offensive guard was still on duty, and if he thought to so much as _look_ at Sakhra in a way that displeased him, there would be blood spilled. "Wars have been started over less," he added, more for himself.

Gimli shook his head, beard waggling with the movement. "I'm not so sure. The lad was killed by Saruman's orcs, yes, but Theoden will not ride against the wizard. He doesn't have the spine for it."

"He's still healing from years of torment. His spine will return," Aragorn murmured, and Sakhra could tell he did not believe the words. Despite her vision, she had seen the king's face and his grief. He looked like a father, not a king, and fathers were not what they needed right now.

The gate loomed, but thankfully, the guards were not the same as before. These ones nodded dutifully at the Hunters, having heard of their exploits both on the plain and in Meduseld. After the guards were long behind, and the noise of Edoras rose to meet them, their talk continued.

"Gandalf means to use Rohan as a shield, blocking Saruman from joining with Sauron," she said quietly, and read her answer on Aragorn's face. Gandalf often kept his plans close to the chest, but this one was easy to deduce.

"Gondor cannot fight a war on two fronts," Aragorn replied, his voice sharp and defensive.

He wanted to be done with this, she could tell, but pressed on. "This is not about just protecting Gondor, and to think so will ruin us."

For a split second, she saw a bit of Boromir in Aragorn, and she knew thoughts of Minas Tirith were flashing in his mind. It made her heart ache for the fallen warrior, but she did not soften.

"Gandalf means to protect us all with his play, not just your people, or mine, or the elves, or the dwarves. In the coming days, we don't fight for Rohan, we fight for us all. Or else we will lose."

There was something in her voice, in her face, that quieted even Gimli. Sakhra was a stern judge of character and conscience, and her words held weight with them. She knew firsthand the darkness they were fighting, and of the four, knew to _never_ underestimate it. Every battle, every skirmish from this day on, must be won for freedom, not honor. For all the free peoples, not for a king. Not for a name. Not for glory. For the right to live, and live free of darkness.

"It's how Sauron wins," she added in a lower, darker voice, and her face clouded over with some painful memory. "He will try to divide and conquer, to remove the pieces from the board one by one."

She was right, and Aragorn knew her knowledge of the Dark Lord was bought at too high a price. _A price we needed her to pay, no matter what she did in that life before._ Though he had balked at her once, suspected her even, the ranger would never do so again. Gandalf vouched for her before and, if need be, Aragorn of the Dunedain would vouch for her a thousand times, before the Steward of Gondor if he needed to. She was an able warrior, a cunning hunter, and a good friend.

But as he watched her walk, ascending the steps of Meduseld with an elven prince at her side, something whispered at the back of his mind. _Do not trust her. For she cannot trust herself._ But because of her past, or because of the elf, he could not say. And even though Aragorn was a shrewd man, he knew there was more beneath her tattoos, hidden in her smooth skin and strange years, that had not let come to light.

Inside the great hall, Lady Eowyn idled by the hearth fire, her eyes shadowed and far away. Despite her straight back and stern features, she looked small and weak and alone. Sakhra remembered how the noble woman smiled at her, even _approved_ , and she found herself sidling up to Eowyn.

"Your brother will return soon," she said aloud, crossing her arms over her chest. Sakhra was careful to wear an open expression, the kindest she could muster up. "Now that the king's mind is his own, he will call back all those banished in Wormtongue's name."

Eowyn did not look up, instead nodding slowly. "Yes, I suppose so." But her voice was weak and unbelieving. "How do you know Eomer?"

With a swing of her head, Sakhra gestured across the hearth, to where the other Hunters had commandeered a long wooden table. Aragorn and Gimli were already smoking, the scent of pipeweed wafting up to the rafters, while Legolas leaned against a pillar. Like Eowyn, he stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

"We came upon him on the plains. Your brother and his eored beat us to our prey," she said, wrenching her eyes away from the prince. "Good men ride with him, worthy of Rohan."

When Eowyn finally drew her eyes away from the fire, she didn't turn to look at Sakhra. Instead, her gaze pierced across the haze of smoke, to where Aragorn sat. It lasted but a moment, but Sakhra knew the sight well. It was often something men directed at her, or she at men.

_Farzane,_ something whispered, but she pushed it away. Another name tried to crawl up out of her mind, but that one she refused to hear at all.

Before Sakhra could speak, to try and draw Eowyn's attention away from the ranger, something else did the job for her. The doors of Meduseld swung open, the wood rattling against the walls, and the king entered like a hurricane. Across his arms lay a boy, barely three and ten, with golden hair and white skin. Another soldier carried a girl, though she was younger, and her eyes were wide and bright. Gandalf followed them both, his face pulled in concentration and, to Sakhra's fear, what looked like fury.

"Bring food and blankets," Theoden barked, and Eowyn was gone before the doors could shut again. The others jumped to attention, with Aragorn reaching out his arms to take the boy, but the king waved him off.

"Eothain wouldn't eat the food," the little girl said, her voice high but very weak. "He said he didn't like it. He made me eat instead."

The soldier tried to hush her as best as he could, patting her on the back, but it was no use. Sakhra felt an odd pull to the little girl, and almost stepped forward, but something kept her rooted to the spot. While the others cleared the table for the boy and Eowyn returned, she didn't move an inch. The scene was too intimate, too real for her to understand. These were great warriors bent over children, attending to them like servants to a king. _Like parents to their sons and daughters._

It felt foreign to her, and unfamiliar. Sakhra's father was a sword, her mother was poison. She did not know the ways of family, no matter how tightly the guild tried to hold on her.

When the boy came to, his eyes flying open after Eowyn ran a cool rag across his brow, all her discomforts were chased away.

"They burned our village. They killed everyone," he said, his strength already faltering again. Before anyone could ask who, the boy sat up, grabbing the king by the arm. "Orcs of Saruman, men of Dunlend, and worse creatures. The Westfold burns."

* * *

Though Eowyn had looked very much like she wanted to stay behind, Theoden commanded her to feed and attend the children properly, and she obeyed. With a backwards glance, she left the hall, a shivering child under each arm.

In a few breathless moments, the hall emptied of the maids, servants, and courtiers, leaving behind only Gandalf, the Hunters, Theoden's advisors, and the king himself. He sank into his throne almost gratefully and gripped the seat with clenched hands. His pale blue eyes blazed about the room, taking in the faces he knew and the ones that were more unfamiliar.

"Lady Sakhra, would you wish to accompany the Lady Eowyn?" the king said, as if he suddenly realized the Hasharina had not left with the other women.

His words put a crackling tension in the air. The Rohirrim generals, hardened men with gray in their beards, looked at her strangely, expecting her to go, but her companions knew she would not. Aragorn uncrossed his arms, about to speak on her behalf, but the Hasharina would not let him. _I have my own voice and they would do well to hear it._

"I would not, my lord," she replied. Her voice was hard but not disrespectful, and she even inclined her head a fraction. "Like my companions, I have come to aid you in the defense of Rohan. I can do no such thing in the kitchens."

To her delight, she thought she heard Gimli disguise a chuckle as a cough.

But one of the generals bristled, even taking as step towards her, and it took everything in Legolas to remain still. "We have no need of women on a war council, let alone a Haradrim snake."

Sakhra didn't flinch at him and she looked like the picture of calm. "This snake has fought many battles, sir, and there are many battles yet to come."

"Peace, Thain," the king said, raising a hand to stop his general before he could retort. Then he leaned forward on his throne, scrutinized Sakhra with a keen eye, taking in her leathers and her blades in a single glance. "I've heard tales of your kind, my lady. If less than half of the Hasharin stories are true, then we would be lucky to have you with us."

Despite her controlled nature, Sakhra felt herself flush with pleasure, and she bowed her head to hide her pink cheeks. "Thank you, my lord."

"Besides, I remember what you did to Grima's men. You know your way around a brawl, at the very least," he added. And though he offered her the slightest of smiles, Sakhra could tell it was not for her benefit. No, the king was trying to appease Gandalf, and perhaps Aragorn. They were the great men in Meduseld and he did not want to cross them, not over some insignificant girl they insisted on dragging along.

With the issue of Sakhra over, Gandalf wasted no time plunging into the problem at hand. He ascended the steps of the dais, almost standing over Theoden as he spoke. "What happened to those children, their village, is but a taste of the terror Saruman will unleash. His hordes will burn your land and your people with it."

"Unless?" Theoden said, almost biting out the word. He was a king and he would not be dictated to, even by one such as Gandalf.

"Unless you right out and meet him head on!" Gandalf replied, leaning forward. His hand grazed the arm of Theoden's throne and Sakhra did not miss Theoden tighten at the motion. "Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight!"

But Theoden said nothing, moving only to run a hand over his yellow beard. His inaction rankled the Hunters, Aragorn most of all. With a will, the Ranger took sharp steps towards the throne.

"You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak. Eomer leads them, and he is loyal to you." His clear blue eyes sparked with determination, as if he alone could make the king see some reason. "They will return and fight for their king."

Sighing, Theoden stood from his throne and began to pace, his arms clasped behind his back. Quietly, Sakhra wondered if he wished to be out of Gandalf's shadow, instead of beneath him.

"Eomer is three hundred leagues from here by now. He cannot help us," he muttered, lamenting the loss of his nephew. But then his voice and face hardened, his knuckles turning bone white as his fists clenched. "I know what it is you would have me do," the king said, turning sharply to face Aragorn. "I will not bring further death to my people, to Rohan. I will not risk open war."

"Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not!" Aragorn snapped, forgetting himself for a moment. _We don't fight for Rohan._ Sakhra's words echoed in his head like a mournful bell. _This is how Sauron wins._

The king was not a man to suffer slights. His eyes narrowed dangerously, but he kept his own anger in check. "When last I looked, Theoden, not Aragorn, was King of Rohan. No matter what your bloodline might be."

Whatever tension might have come from her presence seemed to have increased tenfold, and even Gandalf could not seem to stop it. Sakhra could feel her heart thrumming in her chest, worried at what this might devolve into. At her side, Legolas heard her heartbeat quicken and they exchanged worried glances. He knew Aragorn's temper, slow as it was, and did not wish to tempt it.

"Then what is the king's decision?" Gandalf finally said, moving to step between Aragorn and the king. He was careful to emphasize the word _king_ , and bowed his head a bit in Theoden's direction.

Almost sneering, Theoden stepped back. His generals already knew his mind and the one called Thain even nodded in agreement. "The city will empty. We make for Helm's Deep to ride out this foul storm."

In that moment, Sakhra almost wished she could return to her assassin ways, forcing the crown to another. This was madness. This was foolish. Even the brute Eomer would not have ordered this course. And she knew her friends agreed, judging by their downcast eyes and pursed lips. The Deep was a mistake.

_It is also a fortress. A safe haven._

_A massacre._


	19. Dangerous Beasts

The order rang out over Edoras, passing from one cottage to the next until it reached the plains and villages on the horizon. Many voices carried the call, but the message was the same - on the morn, the city would journey to Helm's Deep and ride out the oncoming storm that was Saruman. As the sun set behind the mountains, families sat down to supper, wondering what the future might bring. For many, it would be their last night at home.

In Meduseld, the king's hall filled with officers and advisors, each one bringing different counsel for Theoden. The great lord himself sat at a high table, with Gandalf on his right, though the wizard's presence seemed to pain him. For his part, Gandalf had ceased his attempts to change the king's decision and now sat in silence, his brow curved in concentration. Aragorn looked on with concern, his eyes grave as a tomb, but he kept quiet as well. Their unspoken words rankled Sakhra to no end. Here were two men of great power, a wizard and a would-be king, but they would do nothing to change Theoden's ill-made mind.

She did not waste her own breath on protesting; no king would listen to her, a woman and a Haradrim both. Instead she focused on her food, forcing herself to eat the steaming broth and thick bread that was much too rich.

At least she felt clean, having taken her turn in the bathhouses. Long days of grime had washed away, leaving her bare of the many ghosts that used to cling. The Ring, Boromir's death, her own failure, all of it seemed to disappear with the water. _Almost_ , she thought dully. _Nothing ever truly disappears._ Again, she had refused the offer of a dress from the maids, but she managed to charm some more suitable clothes out of a washer boy. Now she sat in butter-soft leather leggings and a fine cotton shirt of emerald green. Next to her old garments, full of holes and bloodstains, they looked fit for an emperor

Legolas noticed her quiet manner and it suited him ill. She was uncomfortable here, seated at a place of honor between himself and Gimli at the king's own table. He knew she was used to the shadows, not the light, even if it was what she deserved.

"You are too grim for my liking," he murmured, keeping his eyes on his meal. Despite his elven nature, he gulped down a spoonful.

"We're marching into a cage and everyone knows it," she replied. One hand strayed to her collar, fingers reaching for her necklace. In recent days, she had taken to touching the stone, using it to calm her. "But no one seems to mind."

Between her fingers, the Morianar looked dark and clouded. _A trick of the light_ , Legolas told himself. "Beasts are most dangerous when cornered."

"Take your sly retorts elsewhere," she hissed back, but there was little bite. Even if there had been, he would not have minded, for he agreed with her. Helm's Deep would be their doom, but for a miracle he could not comprehend.

"I trust our friends." He met her gaze coolly, letting her see his meaning in full. _I trust only our friends._

She nodded in agreement. "They would not lead us astray."

Forcing another spoonful of broth, she turned away from Legolas, to look past the king. There she could plainly see Eowyn, her head bowed as she ate in silence. On rare occasion, she said a few quiet and cold words to the marshal at her shoulder. _There is one made for steel_ , Sakhra thought. _She has the courage to fight, even if her uncle does not._

In another world, another life, Sakhra might've entertained the idea of playing the game of thrones. With Eowyn wearing a crown, things would surely be different. But that could not be. Sakhra was not that person anymore. She forced another spoonful of broth, hoping to wash down the thoughts with her meal.

Later that night, after she had seen to Ashere in the stables, Sakhra retired to her chamber. Other women, the wives of counselors and a few noble ladies, shared the room, kipping up on cots or pallets. They chattered to each other, braiding hair or mending shirts. The noise set Sakhra's teeth on edge and until she was forced to slip from the bedroom.

It did not take long to find Gandalf. He was a white shadow on the terrace, still as a statue overlooking the far valley. She expected Aragorn to be with him, but instead the wizard was alone.

"What do the stars say?" she asked, falling into place next to him. It felt like old days past.

The corner of his mouth rose in a half smile. "Only what they wish to tell me, and that is very little."

"They are strange to me." Indeed, the stars of the North were different than those in the South. She recognized one or two ancient constellations but the ones she knew, the Scorpion, the Snake, the Sandstorm, they were gone. "Will we die, Ekelled?" _Gray uncle_.

At that he took her hand in fingers gnarled by age and wisdom. "What do you think?" he asked plainly, his expression clear.

Slowly, she tightened her grip within his hand. "I think we will live. We must."

The smile on his face grew wide. "Then we shall."

* * *

At dawn, the city awakened to the ringing of the bells. Sakhra was already dressed and ready, preparing Ashere down in the stables. There were already too many brutes hanging about for her liking, and she was not going to leave the care of her sand mare to green boys liable to be kicked. But the horse kept her temper, as did her mistress, though the stablehands were in a trying mood. Aragorn and Legolas were nearby, preparing their own mounts, while Gandalf busied himself with Shadowfax, muttering in a strange language to the magnificent animal. Despite her conversation with the wizard, Sakhra still felt unsettled about the days to come.

The worst came when he turned to Aragorn, speaking words she did not want to hear. "He will need you before the end," the wizard murmured, putting a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "The defenses have to hold."

"Will you not be there to hold them?" Sakhra said, hands on both her hips. She did her best to sound stern, and not like a petulant child. It was not working. "Gandalf?"

He bowed his head. "I will come, and I'll bring an army with me. Eomer commands two thousand riders, and we will sorely need them." There was no arguing that, but Sakhra dearly wanted to. "Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east."

Again, Sakhra watched Gandalf leave them, but this time it was of his own volition. Instead of plunging into a black abyss, the White Rider streaked across the plains until he disappeared in a flash of sunlight. She found herself staring after him, even after he was gone from sight. Legolas stood close behind, eyes on the horizon, but his thoughts on her. She put so much so much of her faith in Gandalf, what little she had left, and now it is gone again. It made him afraid.

They were guests of the king, and so they enjoyed a place of great honor as they left the city. Aragorn rode alongside Theoden, the two of them deep in confidence regard the defense of the Deep, and Sakhra could plainly see her friend was born to be a king. Though there was dirt on his boots and bruises on his hands, Aragorn was kingly, even if he tried to hide it.

She settled back in her saddle, resigning herself to the next day or so of such a slow pace. All of Edoras was with them, from young babies to old maids, and the going was glacial. It made her neck prickle, especially after they left the guarded valley. Out on the plains, she felt like a mouse waiting for an eagle to strike. Ashere was not so uneasy as her rider, and enjoyed this time. After several days chasing a Mearas, the march was a vacation, and she whinnied and nickered at all who passed. Arod was her constant companion, as Gimli kept to Sakhra's side. Legolas walked ahead, never more than a few steps away, listening to the dwarf try his best to draw Sakhra out of her dark musings.

"Did I ever tell you the story of my beard? You know each fork is for-."

"A kill?" Sakhra offered, finally rising to the bait. "Each one a troll, I suppose, for the Great Gimli has felled far too many orcs for such a humble beard."

The dwarf laughed aloud, the sound rumbling in his belly. "No, not kills. Each fork is a woman, a jolly little lady who loved and lost Gimli, son of Gloin."

She could not help her own laughter, and it was like music. Her smile, often hidden, seemed to reach her ears. "And here I was thinking you were a proper gentleman!"

Legolas turned over his shoulder, only to see Gimli shrug, a sly little grin peeking through his beard. The elf could only shake his head, amused but, deep down, he was a bit scandalized. If anything, he did not want Sakhra to be offended, and Gimli treaded close to what he knew was dangerous ground with her.

Gimli took the action in a different way, turning his humor on the elf. "And what of the princeling? Are those braids for elven maidens turned aside?" He roared at the joke, finding the thought quite comical.

It was Legolas's reaction that Sakhra laughed at, finding she could not contain herself in the face of a furiously blushing elf. His visage, clear even in the thickest of battles, was now bright red. His pace even quickened a little, as if he wanted to outrun his friends for a while.

"Oh, come now, Legolas, don't be cross," she said, and kicked at Ashere lightly. The horse responded in kind, running down the elf in a moment. She angled the horse, barring his path. He looked up at her with burning eyes. Elves did not like to be embarrassed – it happened only once or twice a century – and their pride was a jewel to be guarded. It only made her smile a bit wider, reminding her of the heart that thrummed beneath his cool exterior. "Besides," she said, in a very loud whisper, "I think Master Gimli is lying. I have it on very good authority that dwarf women do not even exist."

"Authority?" Gimli sputtered, his triumph quickly melting away. "Who- whose authority? Sakhra, that is preposterous!" He jostled in the saddle, trying to force Arod forward. Instead, the horse stopped entirely, earning another round of laughter from the Hasharina and the elf.

The Rohirrim around them even chuckled at the display. It was not often one saw a dwarf, and even rarer to see him astride a great stallion of Rohan. Strange times now, when dwarves rode and Haradrims walked among them.

One of them even stepped forward to take Gimli's reins, her blonde hair shining like gold in the morning sun. It was Eowyn, a princess of Rohan, dressed now in roughspun wools and a fur trimmed cloak. Sakhra expected her to be in a litter or on horseback at least, but the royalty of Rohan were not like the royals she had encountered before. It made her glad to know that they were marching to battle with such people. Even if the battle was foolish.

"Good morning, Master Gimli," Eowyn said, ducking her head in a quick bow. She spoke so that he did not notice, or did not mind, that she was now leading his horse. "Would you mind if I walked with you a while?" Her smile was open, charming, and Gimli could not help but nod.

"Of course, my lady. For these two are nothing but an impertinence." He tossed a glare at his friends, who only sniggered like children in confidence. "And just because _you_ haven't seen any dwarf women, Sakhra Shastaskar, does not mean they do not exist!"

That night, the now disorganized line stopped to camp on a great rise above the plains. The soldiers could see in every direction, and so they were quite safe from attack. Still, Sakhra would have liked to have Gandalf with them, if only for his wisdom. She wondered where he was now, if he had found Eomer, and if he was riding to meet them. _First light on the fifth day._ That is far from now. It was too soon for his return. And then more of his words came to her – _a wizard is never late._ It made her laugh quietly, and she hugged her arms around herself against the chill of the Rohirrim plains. She thought now of the Pelargir port, of mists burning away to reveal a gray wizard. He knew her heart had changed and he sought her out. She was very glad he did.

Dinner on the plains was nothing more than hot stew and hard bread. The people of Edoras had driven off whatever game there was, and she would have to make due with what she could scrounge up. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Aragorn joke down a bowl of brown Eowyn brought him, and she raised a bit of her veil to hide her smile. The princess, while hardy, was no cook.

"He should not humor her so," Legolas said, stepping out from the rope corral of horses. He had Arod's saddle over one arm, and a dark look on his face.

Normally, Sakhra would agree with the elf's words. She too had seen the way the golden lady had watched their friend, her eyes shining. She was a princess of Rohan, a match for any man, particularly a king of Gondor, but not this one. This one had already pledged his heart to another. But instead, Sakhra turned her piercing sight on Legolas. It was not like him to be so grave, so critical of Aragorn.

"Are you all right, Legolas?"

He wanted to brush her off. He should have. Instead he said nothing, and put away the saddle with a very un-elflike huff. She let him work, watching quietly, noting the great tension in his hands and shoulders. For a moment, she was seized by the need to touch him, to work away his pains. It made her catch her breath, and she nearly ran. But her feet stayed rooted to the ground, waiting for his answer.

"Aragorn is too noble," he finally said, his back still to her. He could not believe he was saying the words. _I am a Prince of the Greenwood. My heart should not quail. I should not be afraid._ "His faith in men will be his ruin. Theoden is a fool, almost a coward, who would not even summon help from Gondor, and Aragorn backs him. They discussed it all morning, how to hold the Deep, how to turn back the tide of Saruman. Surely they know there is no way?" When he turned back around, his kind face was pulled in sorrow, in fear, and that alone made Sakhra afraid. "Surely they know we will all die?"

"Gandalf would not let that happen," she said weakly, more for herself than Legolas.

He scoffed aloud, his voice so sharp she almost flinched. "You put too much faith in the wizard."

It was the first time he had spoken to her like this since Rivendell, when he opposed her coming, when he told she needed protection like a hobbit, like a child. She wanted to gut him then and she wanted to gut him now. "Do not talk to me like I am a fool," she hissed, closing the distance between them. "Would you rather I trusted in only myself, like I did for too many years to count? Would you rather I put my faith in nothing?"

He stared at her for a long hard moment, debating whether or not she would strike him. "No," he finally said. "And I do not think you are a fool. It's just-," but the next words stuck in his mouth. _I do not want to watch you die._

There was something he was not saying, something he would not let himself say. Part of her wished to hear it, would wait a thousand years to hear it, but the rest of her still stung. _Let him drown in his unspoken words. I care not._ It was not even a little bit true. Of course she cared, but she could not let him see that. Not when a great battle and perhaps their doom hung on the horizon. She needed her wits and could let the elf prince clouded whatever judgment she had left. And if, against all odds, she was indeed some distraction to him, she would never forgive herself. _Never._

"You are tired," she said finally, taking a step back from him. He fought the urge to stop her movement, and stood rooted. "We are all tired, and must rest now."

To another, Legolas would have balked and cited his elven nature. He was of the Fair Folk and could walk for a thousand days without tiring. But she knew that, of course. Physical exhaustion was not what she meant. She knew something else ailed him, be it lack of faith or fear, and he needed to address it without her aid.

"Good-night, Sakhra," he murmured, offering her a quiet smile in the dark. "Sleep you well."

She did not, of course. The names came as they always did, and from across the dead fire, Legolas listened. When cold morning came, she awoke alert as ever, but the circles beneath her eyes were like bruises. It frightened him to think of her weakening, and he thought back to Amon Hen, to the moment he thought he would truly lose her. Now that fear came again.

The ragged line of villagers and horsemen moved slower than yesterday, and it rankled Sakhra as well as Ashere. Now the sand mare wished to gallop, and pulled at her reins, almost prancing in place. Finally, Sakhra sighed at her energetic horse, quietly acquiescing to her needs.

She leaned down, patting Legolas on her shoulder. Again, he walked close by, though he spoke little, if at all. "I'm going to run Ashere a bit," she said, not at all liking the strange darkness in his eye. "In case anyone asks for me."

No one would, though, for Legolas and Gimli knew where she was going, and though Aragorn walked with Eowyn farther away, he would likely guess. Anyone else would not care.

"Keep a sharp eye out," Legolas replied, casting his own glance on the tawny horizon. "I like not these open plains."

To that, Sakhra could only grin. She patted the sword at her side, then the horse beneath her. "Afraid we might take all the glory from you, Princeling?" she goaded, and Gimli chuckled from the saddle nearby.

With a smile, she tightened her grip on the reins and gave Ashere the slightest kicking. It was all the sand mare needed and she was off like an arrow from the bow, a black shadow against golden grass. Sakhra had not bothered to draw her hood and her braid flew out behind her, glinting in the sun. Now she felt lighter, the weight of Rohan and her boorish people suddenly lifting away. She supposed they would never warm to her, and did not blame them. They were country folk, and while the magic of elves, dwarves, and mythic kings could charm them, a brown-skinned assassin surely could not. It was harsh reality she knew well, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

_At least Ashere likes me_ , she thought, noting the joy in her horse as she crested a rise. But it was shortlived, and feared shot through Sakhra and the animal both. The Hasharina could smell it on the air, the heavy, putrid smell of unclean dog mixed with the unmistakable odor of orc. Ashera was a runner and a warhorse both, and pawed her hooves, as eager for battle as her rider.

"Where?" Sakhra murmured to herself, searching the horizon. Then the wind shifted, blowing from another direction, and as she turned into it, she realized. Horror bled through her.

The wargs were behind, from whence she came, and they had caught the smell of man.

Ashere galloped like she was chasing Shadowfax, incensed by her lady's urgency, understanding the terrible need for haste. They could hear the wargs now, barking and howling, mixing with the jeers of their riders. Their Orcish speech was harsh, the dialect of Isengard, but Sakhra understood it.

_Eat the children. Tear the women in two._

She was close now, and the far rise darkened with villagers. Women, children, and elders fled like Sauron himself was on their heels, and Eowyn led them. Her stern voice carried on the wind.

"Stay together! Make for the lower ground!"

Above them, the men were mounting their horses, preparing for the onslaught to come. Sakhra could see Legolas beyond them all, closest to the pack, his arrows striking the first blows, but she had no time to fear for him. The wargs numbered in the dozens, and even now, several broke off from the pack, dodging out of the elf's range. They had caught sight of the children, and their jaws were wide.

Eowyn whirled, and for a moment, her heart quailed. She had wanted to stay, to fight, and now she knew what that meant. The wargs, their fur stained with dried blood, were like the lions of hell bearing down. She had no weapon, no way to fight them. She could only stare as they came on, knowing that all could see, knowing that her uncle, the Rohirrim, _Aragorn_ , would have to watch her die.

Instead, a black shadow came between her and the warg, as swift as rolling thunder. A white blade spun, held tight by an able warrior who slashed it across the warg's face. It fell dead at Eowyn's feet, and then the horse was on the fallen rider, hooves flashing, trampling the orc. Before the maiden had a chance to look up, to put a name to her savior, the black mare was galloping. The rider held out her sword, letting it drip blood, incensing the other wargs to follow, to leave the villagers, to let them escape.

With the Rohirrim to her left, the warg pack to her right, and three more behind her, Sakhra felt a battle cry rise to her lips. She kept Ashere in hand, knowing the horse could outrun the wargs, but then they would turn to find easier prey. She must let them think they could catch her, and Ashere understood. The wargs bit at the horse's feet, their jaws snapping inches from her hooves, even as the others pressed towards her flank.

A hard wall of rock loomed ahead, too high to jump, and Sakhra understood. A few more feet should do it.

Even as Legolas swang himself into the saddle, he kept his eyes on her. He barely dared to breath, watching Sakhra ride past with three wargs on her heels. _Fool_ , he cursed, kicking at Arod, spurring him onward. _Outrun them. Outrun them._

"The Hasharina!" a Rohirrim rider cried, and others echoed the call. Her gambit was foolish and brave, just what the men of Rohan favored, and it stirred them into battle frenzy. Their swords and axes spun in the air, begging to find flesh.

Their prayers were soon answered, as wargs and horses collided. At the wall of rock, Sakhra pulled hard on the reins, so that Ashere skidded in the sharpest of turns. Her flank barely grazed the rock face, but the wargs were not so deft as a sand mare. They ran headlong into it, all three colliding with a sickening crunch of skulls.

She did not bother to look back, and rode against the tide of Rohirrim only to circle around again. The battle was not yet won, even if she had already done more than her part. Now the knifework began, and she rode alongside the men, her blade dancing in and out. It was not hard to keep Legolas in sight, her ears attuned to the twang of his bow, and their horses wove past each other. She even dared throw him a smile across the back of a wounded warg.

He barely shook his head, annoyed with her levity. She was stained bloody to the elbows and knees, looking like a demon upon a wraith's horse, but her grin was white and wide. Deep down, it gave him a chill.

Gimli fell from the saddle barely moments into the battle, and Sakhra stayed by him, circling round the dwarf. Of course, the moment she turned her head, he found himself buried beneath a warg corpse. Somehow the bodies on him multiplied, and by the time the din of battle began to wane, he could only wriggle his arms in silent plea.

There were but a few wargs left now, and the swift Rohirrim were seeing to them some yards away. Laughing, Sakhra slid from Ashere, landing next to the trapped dwarf.

"In a spot of trouble, Gimli?" she said, bending over him. His face was nearly purple with rage and embarrassment. "Would you like some help?"

"I'm quite fine," he huffed, attempting to press no less than two wargs and an orc from his chest. They barely budged. "Quite fine," he said again, wheezing when the bodies fell back down.

Sakhra knew he would never admit to needing aid, but gave it all the same. She took rope from Ashere's saddle, tying the horse to the orc corpse, and pulled the beast from Gimli. To her surprise, the stout little dwarf shoved off the remaining wargs and clambered to his feet. His face was still colored, but he smiled and laughed.

"I shall need a bath after this," he chortled, moving to clasp her arm. Then, quieter, he fixed her with a sobering stare. "You gave us quite a fright there, lassie."

She only shrugged. "Like you haven't seen me fight before. And without my horse, at that," she added, patting Ashere's nose. "She's twice the warrior I am."

"Oh, I wasn't scared for you," Gimli blustered, lying so poorly it made her grin again. "But the elf will have some words for you, if I'm not mistaken."

Sakhra only rolled her eyes. "He always does."

Even now, the elf was far off, standing at the edge of a nearby cliff. He was seething, no doubt, angry at her heroics, though he would have done the same as she, had he been in the position. _He is out of sorts_ , she knew, ever since Theoden decided to flee for Helm's Deep. She understood why better than most, and did not deserve his rage. Still, it was better for him to lash out at her or Gimli rather than Aragorn or, gods forbid, Theoden.

So she trudged over to the cliff, ready to take her punishment. But instead of an elven tirade, she found nothing but terrible, fearsome silence. Theoden was there, one arm on the elf's shoulder, his face grim and pale. They stared over the cliff edge, to the churning river far below. Someone had fallen.

_Not just someone._

Her eyes fell to Legolas's hand, now clasping a familiar white jewel. Aragorn's necklace, a gift from his elven maiden. A gift he would never part with.

She sucked in breath so sharply both turned to look at her, and she did not have the sense to hide her face. The King of Rohan recovered first, drawing back from Legolas's side. He passed by her, giving her arm a squeeze.

"My sympathies," he murmured, and he did not lie. "You fought well, Sakhra of Harad," he added, before turning back to the bloody field. She barely heard him at all, her mind a complete blank. No, not completely. There was pain, a dull one deep in her bones.

There were no words for this, and she did not feel herself move, did not know her actions until she was in Legolas's arms, holding him tightly. This was for him, not herself. He needed comfort more than she did, even though Aragorn was also her friend and captain. But the elf's hurts ran so much deeper than her own, so deep he could barely breathe.

"He's alive," she whispered, so close he could feel her breath in his ear. In another life, it would make him smile. "He's alive, he's alive, he's alive."

But he could not believe it. He could only let his head drop, his forehead resting against her shoulder. He had only the will to fight tears, and even that was almost too much for him. Slowly, he tightened his grip on her, holding her like he would a rock in a stormy sea.

When Gimli joined them on the cliff, the reins of both horses in hand, he fell to his knees and drove his axe into the ground. Again and again, he struck the dirt, hoping to make a mark, to leave something to note the passing of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. For the Rohirrim were moving again, and they could not even claim his body.

Sakhra's tears were silent, for Legolas's sake, and she rode shoulder to shoulder with the elf. At times, she supported his weight, and at others, he did hers.

The Four Hunters were three now, and their grief was great as they entered Helm's Deep.


	20. How Your Heart Should Die

The stone walls of Helm's Deep matched their grief and gloom. The sky darkened overhead as the sun slipped behind midday clouds and somehow, even the echoes of townsfolk seemed mournful. Everything was gray. Aragorn was gone. Sakhra wanted to weep, to beat her fists against stone until she could feel pain instead of sorrow, but she could not let herself. Not now, when Legolas had such need of her. He could barely dismount from his horse without stumbling; to see the fleet-footed elf so affected frightened her.

Without a thought, Sakhra let Ashere be led away by stablehands. This time she offered no complaint, barely sparing a glance for her beloved horse. The Rohirrim milled about inside the great gate of the keep, reuniting with loved ones. It made her want to scream. When long golden hair gleamed through the crowd, steadily making her way towards them, Sakhra knew what must be done. She took Legolas by the arm, leading him away before Eowyn could pounce. That job she would leave for Gimli.

He felt cold beneath her fingers and it made her tighten her grip on his arm. On the ride in, he had trembled against her, his hands quivering in her own, but now he was still as the surrounding stone. He was still. The shadow had fallen.

She did not know the keep well enough to find her way inside, where more prying eyes were sure to be, so she led them down a different path. After a few passages and stairways, they found themselves out on the Deeping Wall itself, with the valley beyond and the Deep behind. Finally the sun broke through the clouds again, and a cool breeze plucked at their clothing, bringing with it the clean smell of the plains, and the forest beyond. It was like a splash of cold water across Legolas's face.

But still he did not speak. He did not trust himself to.

_So I will have to make him_ , Sakhra thought, and swung her legs over the edge of the rampart.

"What are you doing?" exploded from him, his first words since the plains. For a moment, he forgot his grief and could only balk at the Hasharina now perched precariously on the edge of the wall. She didn't seem to realize she was sitting on the edge of a fifty-foot drop.

Instead, she threw back her hood. In the bright sunlight, he could see her own sorrow, no matter how hard she tried to keep it hidden. _They are hurting just as I am._

"Sitting," she finally replied, and gestured to the stone next to her. "Will you join me?"

After a long moment where he debated scolding her or walking away, Legolas let himself lean against the rampart. He folded his arms over the stone, letting the cold seep into his bones. The breeze blew again, drawing his gaze to the valley beyond. Saruman's army would come this way, and soon. _This might be the last thing I ever see._ Then he turned towards her, fixing his eyes on her now familiar face. _No, not the last._

"I knew him from when he was a boy," he said grimly. "You would not recognize him them. He was not so grave or," the elf paused, searching for the word, "burdened."

She nodded, understanding his meaning. "A crown would do that to anyone. I think you know that."

For a second, his mind flashed back to the halls of his father. To the antler-crowned throne of Thranduil the Elvenking. He would never sit it, not now. "I do." Then her words on the plains returned, whispering in his ear like prayers. "You truly believe he is alive?"

The question rattled her, and she sucked in a shaky breath. Logic told her no. Logic told her Aragorn had drowned with no one but a warg for comfort. But the Fellowship, the Quest, and her companions had taught her to ignore logic now. "I think if Gandalf can survive a fall to the deepness of the world, then Aragorn can survive a swim."

"Gandalf is a wizard."

"And Aragorn is a king. You are an elf. Gimli is a dwarf. None of you are ordinary, and none of you will meet ordinary ends."

When he looked at her fully, this close and in such bright light, he saw what he never had before. Not in the golden light of Rivendell, in the dark of Moria, or beneath the stars of Lothlorien. Not even by the hearthfire of Meduseld or the glow of the plains moon. He saw the woman beneath her mask. The mortal. The slave girl born to nothing, doomed to die without a name. An ordinary, horrifying life she had never lived, but one she still thought of everyday.

"You and I both know you are not ordinary," he murmured, bringing a hand to her face. The skin beneath his hand blazed with heat, like a stone left in the sun. "And we both know he is dead."

Slowly, painfully, she pulled his hand away. But she did not let it go. "I know you are afraid, Legolas." Before he could protest, she shook her head. "And it is not wrong to be. We face war, pain, death at every turn – and we are _all_ afraid. You must not despair, or think yourself weak." Her grip tightened on his fingers, as if she could push the words into him. "We are _all_ afraid."

Legolas wanted to hold onto her. He wanted to with all he had. _But we are to die, and I will not die with a broken heart._ "I fear nothing for myself," he said, and his eyes were on hers again. _I fear for Gimli, Aragorn, Gandalf – and for you. Always for you._

"Then you have a better heart than mine," she muttered with a small smile. "I still have the good sense to fear an Uruk-Hai siege."

_The army._ In these brief, electrifying moments, he had almost forgotten. "Let me guess, you think we will win that too? You think Aragorn will return? Perhaps he will also wear robes of white."

The bitterness in his voice made her want to strike him. "You elves are far more skeptical than I thought."

"I prefer practical," he replied, tossing a crumbling piece of stone off the wall. It disappeared before it hit the ground. "We barely have enough men here to man the wall, let alone outlast an army of Saruman."

She knew that well enough. _First light on the fifth day._ That was the day after tomorrow, by her reckoning. And Gandalf would not leave them to die. He would not.

"Will you leave, then?" she asked suddenly, barely thinking the words before they left her mouth. Each one was a cold stab of fear to her heart. "If the battle is doomed?"

_How can she think that of me?_ It made him want to kill something, to know she thought so little of him and his heart. _But then, I gave her reason to. I gave her so much reason._

"I would not," he said finally. "I would never." Then he looked at her sidelong, hoping to see just a shadow of her smile again. "Besides, who would make sure you were not so foolhardy?"

She obliged, smirking with downcast eyes. "I prefer heroic."

* * *

Gimli had words for the both of them, though they were tempered by his own sadness. She apologized for abandoning him to Eowyn, but in truth, the dwarf understood. Legolas was not one to be so affected by death, but then he had been all but ruined. Now he could at least stand on his own two feet and speak. _That is her doing_ , Gimli knew. _She has brought him back from the precipice, at least for a time._

That night, they attended Theoden's council, listening with dull eyes as the captains of Rohan detailed the defense of the Deep. Archers on the wall, to be led by Legolas, while the green boys and greybeards would defend the inner keep. Sakhra and Gimli would stand with the ground troops, ready to fight if the wall was breached.

"But it will not be," Theoden assured them. "The Deeping Wall has stood for centuries and defended us many times. It will not fall."

The captains echoed his words, looking proud of their king. His enchantment was still close in memory and his action now, even if it was poor, was still cause for pride. Sakhra, on the other hand, read the fear in his eyes. The king did not believe in the wall; he did not even believe in himself.

Fear clutched at her heart, but she pushed it away. She must be strong, for Legolas, for Gimli, and for the people of Rohan. A woman's worrying would do them no good.

_At least I am allowed to sit with them_ , she thought, glancing around at the men of Rohan. Though Aragorn and Gandalf were not here to vouch for her, they offered no protest when she entered the room. Her antics on the plains, taking on the warg pack, surely had something to do with that. And now, being included in the defense of the Deep without even having to fight for the right, that was something indeed.

It was well past nightfall when Theoden dismissed them, and the clouds had cleared entirely. There was no moon, leaving only stars to illuminate the inky sky. _It is a good night for hunting_ , she thought, _and for marching._ In her head, she could hear them, thousands of feet stamping in time. Their armor clanged and swords rasped. It would not be long now.

"Think there's some chance of food?" Gimli grumbled, gesturing back into the keep. "I need a good meal after stomaching that nonsense."

Sakhra laughed darkly. "Thinking of your last meal?"

"No, not my last," the dwarf said, blustering with pride again. But this time, his famed confidence seemed shaken. "But I wouldn't say no to some roast boar."

"Honeywine for me," Legolas said, his eyes faraway. "And honeycake. White honeybread-."

"I believe we've found the Prince of the Greenwood's weakness," Sakhra muttered, finding it easy to smile at that. Never would she have guess the tempered, disciplined prince had a sweet tooth.

"And what about you, lass? Any last requests?" Gimli asked. He meant to sound lighthearted, but the words were grim as anything.

She shrugged her shoulders, disliking the question. "A clean death, I suppose. And a cask of sweet rum to ease the passing."

"That I can understand," the dwarf chuckled, patting her on the arm. "I'll be sure to break open my father's best when you visit me and my kin in Erebor."

_I pray that we get the chance._

The silence that fell among them was heavy, full of fear and the sorrow they tried so hard not to feel. Sakhra felt torn between wanting to stay, to spend every second she could with her friends who could be gone on the morrow, or wanting to run. Their unspoken words threatened to drown her now, and she wanted no part in it. When the familiar golden head appeared again, looking out from the battlements, she felt some relief.

"I'll meet you in the barracks," she said to Gimli and Legolas, but her eyes were still on Eowyn. "I will not tarry long."

Legolas wanted to protest, to keep her close, but Gimli opened his mouth first, and to his chagrin, he did not agree. "Aye," the dwarf said gruffly, "The lady is in need of some company."

With narrowed eyes, Legolas watched Sakhra disappear into a stone passage, only to emerge a few moments later. Now she stood besides Eowyn, a dark shadow to the lady's dim light. Only when Gimli thumped him on the arm did he move away, following the dwarf into the keep where dinner, a dark room, and darker thoughts awaited.

"You saw him fall?" Eowyn murmured, her eyes on the moonlit valley. She knew she would be going into the caves before battle, and that this night might be the last one she would ever see. "You saw Aragorn fall?"

Sadly, Sakhra shook her head. "I did not." As much as Eowyn tried to hide it, Sakhra heard the accusation in her voice. _Why didn't you protect him? Why didn't you stop this?_ "In battle, it is difficult to see beyond what's in front of you. Distraction can mean death, and I am not accustomed to fighting with so many…distractions around me."

_Hobbits, men, dwarves, wizards – and elves. Every time I draw my blade I must be mindful of them, to keep them as safe as I keep myself_. It was a daunting task, but until now, she found it easy. _Nothing is easy anymore._ And she knew why – blonde hair, an elven cloak, and a deadly bow.

"I did not mean to be unkind," Eowyn said. "Or ungrateful. You saved my life when the wargs attacked."

The lady of Rohan did not say thank you, but Sakhra heard it all the same. After all, they were quite alike, with spines of steel. Gratitude was foreign to them both. But Eowyn was not thinking on gratitude now. Her hands clenched, and Sakhra watched her draw a dagger from the folds of her dress. It was finely made, meant for kings, and surely stolen from the royal armory.

"Eowyn?"

"I was trained as a shieldmaiden," the lady said proudly, her head held high. "I can fight with sword, dagger, and shield, and far better than the boys and graybeards. But my uncle will not let me stand on the walls. He will not let me face the army, and die gloriously with the rest of you." Her teeth were on edge, flashing in the moonlight. "It is unfair."

A cord of anger tightened in Sakhra, twisting until she felt it might break. "My lady," she began, fighting tooth and nail to keep her voice from shaking. "You are a royal maiden, highborn. You know better than any that life is unfair, and you have never seen the wrong side of it."

In her head, she saw the tents, the whips, the hard life of the guild, the harder life of slaves. All she had done to buy at least a nod of respect from the men of the world. To see this princess lamenting her place was enough to send her into a rage. It was all Sakhra could do to walk away, biting her lips shut until she was safe inside the walls of the keep, with many walls of stone between herself and the bitter princess. By the time she found her companions, tucked away in a small chamber, her anger had lessened to something she could control. Legolas saw it in her eyes, but said nothing. Instead, he toed the cot laid out for her.

Though Gimli snored on the floor, as loud as a hurricane, he still heard her whispered thanks. To his surprise, he did not hear the names that night. She did not dream at all.

* * *

The morning dawned grey and damp, holding with it a constant threat of rain. _Of course_ , Sakhra cursed as she caught the scent of water. _Of course we must die in a downpour on top of everything else._ She shook her head back and forth, as if the motion could chase the dark thoughts from her mind, but it did no good. Nothing could distract her now. Doom was coming, and she would always be dwelling on it.

It was late in the morning, later than she almost ever slept, judging by the slant of light on the wall. Legolas was gone, his place by the window abandoned. But Gimli still snored in his pallet, his beard rising and falling with little puffs of breath. She remembered her own night of deep, enveloping sleep, the calmest night she could remember in years. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. _I learn to sleep on the eve of my death._ But she could sleep no longer. The last day had dawned.

Stretching, she rose to her feet, bending and twisting her arms over her head. Muscles arched and bones cracked, each one bringing a tiny sigh of relief. She went through the motions slowly, each stretch remembered from days at the guild. They would do her good later, when the Uruks came and she needed all her skill to slay them. It was too easy to lose herself in the stretches, dipping and turning until she found herself balancing against the wall, hands on the floor, feet in the air.

_Legolas is much less distracting upside down_ , she thought idly as he entered the room. The sight of her upended quirked a smile on his lips and he put down the tray of food and ale.

"Are you," he paused, not knowing which part of her to look at, "stuck?"

At that, she laughed aloud and pushed off the wall, her feet landing quietly. She righted herself with a shrug, wiping the dust of the floor of her hands, and turned back around to him. "I don't get stuck."

She reached for the first bit of food, some toasted bread that was more black than gold, but it went down easy, as did the ale. "Did you eat already, or are you still maintaining that ridiculous notion that you don't eat at all?"

"I had the last the lembas. I figured the two of you wouldn't miss it," he said, putting a plate of sausages in front of Gimli. The scent woke the dwarf better than any bell, and he snuffled awake.

"What service!" he said, a sausage to his mouth before he could even sit up. The rest were gone quickly, filling the grey silence with the sounds of feasting dwarf.

Sakhra finished off the bread and her ale, knowing that she wouldn't be able to keep much more down. In spite of herself and her training against fear, she still felt it churning deep in her stomach. Terror bit at the walls of her mind and heart, threatening to crash through and break her. But she would not let it.

"I suppose I should get to the armory before they run out of bows," she sighed, making for the door. Legolas and Gimli were quick to follow, loyal as puppies. They were just as directionless as she, looking for something to fill the hours between life and death.

The stone hall outside bustled with soldiers and servants, though there was little to separate them. Everyone wore the pale, weary faces of those caught up in war – and who believed they would never survive it.

"Would that I kept my Mirkwood bow," Legolas said, thinking back to his dark wood weapon inlaid with gold. "It would have served you better than any in this keep."

What she said in reply chilled him, sending a spike of fear through his well-built defenses. "It makes no difference now."

The armory was not so busy yet. Men did not want to look on the weapons of their doom until they needed to, and only a few young boys milled about, marveling at the sharp edges of axes and the weight of dull chainmail. Gimli stopped to educate the boys on axe-work, while Legolas found the bows quickly, picking out the curved shapes with ease. After all, he was an archer of three thousand years. The bow and arrow were the most familiar things in his world. He weighed each expertly, testing the strings and sights while Sakhra looked on.

She smiled, amused. His love for all things archery was known to her, and familiar as well. His eyes took on the sheen of men in love or lust, thirsting for the curve of a body instead of a bow. "It's no wonder you haven't married," she said aloud, not bothering to think through the words. They had no time for that now.

But for his elven sense, Legolas would have dropped the bow in his hand. "What?" he asked, his voice strangled with surprise.

Instead, Sakhra grinned. She felt something old rise inside her, the crooked smiles and lithe movements of the woman she once was. Would it hurt so much to be so again, now before dying? _No, it wouldn't._ She hoisted herself up onto the table, sitting calmly inches away from him, her eyes never leaving his. She had done this a thousand times with a thousand others, but now felt different. Now felt terrifying and fierce and strangely freeing. With swift and trailing hands, she took the bow from him.

"No maiden could compete with this," she said, smirking and laughing a little. "Even in three thousand years."

He knew there was a side of her like this. There had to be, what with her past. But never had she turned it on him, using smiles and wide-eyed glances as surely as she did her daggers. As he watched, she bit her lip and turned her head, baring the smooth curve of her neck. Galadriel's jewel glittered there, at the hollow of her throat, and he was taken by the need to touch it. It was a strange feeling, to know what she was doing and not to mind. In that instant, Legolas thought he might do anything for the curve of that neck, the flash of those black eyes.

The moment shattered with a literal crash, shocking them both out of their strange stillness.

"Rascals!" Gimli shouted above the four boys' jilted laughter. There were axes about his feet, fallen from the table, and the red-faced Rohirrim boys were to blame.

They stifled their giggling as best they could, bending to collect the axes. "We're sorry, Master Dwarf," one said, "We've not begun our training yet."

That was enough for Sakhra to slide off the table and pad towards them. She slung the bow over her shoulder haphazardly, almost hitting Legolas in the process. He was keeping so close. But he was not in her thoughts now. No, now she thought of the boys, barely ten years old, holding axes meant for warriors. But warriors they would be, and soon.

"Boys," she said, her voice silencing their laughter in an instant. They jumped, moving to face her like they would a captain.

"My lady," they murmured in unison, bowing strangely. These were peasant boys, unaccustomed to etiquette – or Haradrim. And despite their giggling, she saw the fear in their eyes, the knowledge that they too would stand on the walls and die tonight.

For their sake, she smiled. "Who knows how to use a slingshot?"

Four hands shot into the air.

Broadaxes and long swords were no use to them, that much she knew. After all, she too had been a little warrior once, training at the guild with the best weapons to fit her stature. Now it was easy to call on those lessons, and give the boys whatever she could. As she taught them, her head cleared a little. The quiet, thrilling moments that had made her so bold were fading, giving way to shame. _How can I be so foolish? So selfish?_ It would be a sin to act thusly towards Legolas, and she did it anyway. The Fellowship was a bond, yes, but also a promise. The Quest was more than themselves, more than whatever the individual might want. And what's more, he was an elven prince. She was nothing but a cloud passing across the sun. To think otherwise would be silly – and dangerous. _I will not die with a broken heart._

Frell was a butcher's boy, already good with knives, so he was easy. She found him a pair of daggers, pitted by age but still sharp. Brinden had no taste for blades, but could shoot ten yards true from a slingshot. Sakhra set him to altering his shots, imbedding pins and finger blades in them. The other two, Theomund and Hallas, were small but agile and quick. Legolas instructed them on the best way to serve archers, how to refill a quiver without affecting the bowman. Gimli was very helpful as well, detailing how to use their height as an advantage. As usual, Sakhra's last words were foreboding.

"Cut the back of the leg wherever you can. The muscles there keep a man standing, and will put an Uruk on its back quicker than daylight," she said, gesturing on Frell. "If you can, slice here," she added, drawing a hand across his thigh. "The blood loss will kill them before you can."

To her delight, the boys nodded, more intrigued than afraid. These moments, however few, would serve them well soon enough.

Voices rose outside the armory door, sounding more glad than fearful, but Sakhra took no notice. Legolas, on the other hand, heard them clearly, and what the voices murmured injected hope into a hopeless heart. He started walking without thought, ignoring Sakhra and Gimli's shouts. They would follow, he knew, and he had no time to explain. He needed to see for himself, he needed to _know_.

"A ghost," Sakhra heard an old woman murmur, her hand to her heart. "A deliverer," another cried, pointing forward. She strained to see through the crowd, but there was nothing but roughspun wool and blonde hair ahead. Sighing to herself, she bit back the urge to push through them.

Legolas was not so burdened, slipping through the bodies with the ease of an elf. She followed him as closely as she could, with Gimli bumbling along behind, until they found themselves before the doors of the great keep. The elf's sharp eyes saw first and he exhaled heavily, letting go of a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. Relief coursed through him, the lifting of a stone.

A tall figure approached, taking the steps two at a time, with long, familiar strides. His leathers were caked with mud, his sleeves bloodstained, and there were blue bruises on his exposed skin. But to the Hunters, he still looked a king.

"I'll kill you!" Gimli roared, barreling past faster than Sakhra thought possible. He wrapped his arms around Aragorn's middle, lifting the man right off the stone. "You are the luckiest, the canniest, and the most reckless man I ever knew! Bless you laddie!"

Aragorn laughed openly once his feet were back on the ground. To Sakhra's eyes, he looked like he did on the plains, when they were alone with nothing but the hunt. Those days were dangerous, but free.

"I think he's got enough blessings, Gimli," she said, moving to embrace her captain. "In case you haven't noticed, he's defied death."

"And we'll have to do it again," he replied, his eyes darkening as he drew back from her grasp. "I must see the king."

"Through there," Sakhra replied, pointing into the keep.

Aragorn nodded his thanks and was gone in an instant, his harried pace matched only by Legolas right beside him. Gimli moved to follow, but Sakhra put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"Give them a moment," she murmured, fighting the urge to smile. Already she could see the change in Legolas and when the two old friends locked arms, speaking in hurried Elvish, it warmed her soul.

Aragorn's white jewel passed between them, from the elf to the man. It carried with it a promise renewed and, though Sakhra didn't know it, a question. Of blessings, Aragorn had many. And now he had blessings to give.

"After," Aragorn said lowly. He knew what Legolas wanted to ask, what Legolas wanted leave to feel, but it could not be. Not yet.

Determination flooded the elf's eyes. "After," he repeated, and the words were sure as stone. _There will be an after._


	21. War Paint

_It is an army bred for a single purpose. To destroy the world of men._

The words still coiled in her belly, a snake of fear waiting to strike. But it had not bitten yet, and Sakhra was calm as she followed her friends from the hall of Helm’s Deep. Theoden had gone to see the walls again, his captains in tow, and all of them spouted nonsense about lasting the night. They had not seen Uruk-Hai before; they did not know what evil waited. _Ten thousand strong_. Sakhra could not even fathom such a number. The deserts of her home could never support a host so large and for a moment, she wished they were safe in the sands, protected by drought and dunes.

Worst of all, Theoden had refused to call for aid. Even when Aragorn pleaded, begging him to send riders to Gondor, the king of Rohan stood firm. _We will die alone_ , Sakhra thought, _and no one will live to tell of it. No one will even know._ That stung her more than she thought it would. After all, she was an assassin born, a shadow who delighted in anonymity and darkness. But now she walked with heroes and wizards, playing her own small part in the defense of Middle-Earth. It would be a lie to say she did not dream of her name sung with theirs, remembered through the ages as the Hasharina Who Turned. _Instead I die in Rohan, for nothing more than a king’s foolishness._

Though Aragorn’s words were spoken not minutes ago in the hall, they were now whispered in every corner of the Deep. As they made their way through the twisting passages, Sakhra watched the women tremble and clutch their men. The menfolk did their own share of shivering, before tromping off to the armory. 

Aragorn heard the whispers too, and they made his heart heavy. _The defenses have to hold._ He had promised Gandalf they would and now he knew they could not. Even the Deep could not stand the black army he saw on the plains. It would be an ending to them all. _No, I cannot think like that. I cannot be defeated before the battle is even begun._

To chase the whispers away, he began to climb up a flight of steps, two at a time, until he was on the battlements of the great keep of Helm Hammerhand. Sakhra and surprisingly Gimli were quick to follow, but Legolas was slow moving. Aragorn knew what that meant, and could see despair written in the prince’s face. It was not like an elf to let life be so blindly thrown away, and he knew Legolas was working hard to keep silent in the face of death.

“Rohirrim bowmen are good shots, better than most men. They’ll stand the Deeping Wall in a line of two, and keep their volleys in rhythm,” Aragorn said, pointing to the wall below. The words came so quickly, like he was forcing them out. “Let’s hope we have a good store of arrows.”

Gimli scoffed, scuffing his boot against the stonework. “I’ll take axes over arrows,” he muttered. “The Uruks will have ladders to climb the walls, and then reedy bowmen will be of no more use.” 

The jibe hit home, a pleasant sting of distraction, and Legolas smirked. “I’d wager my bow against your axe any day.”

“Very well,” Gimli said, grinning through his beard. “I hope you keep count well, Elf, for I certainly do.” 

Sakhra could not help but roll her eyes. “You two,” she said, leaning into the wind. The sun’s light was weakening as it crept towards the horizon, and she watched it for a long quiet moment. “What of the women and children?”

“They will be taken into the Glittering Caves,” Aragorn replied, tearing his eyes away from the gloomy passages below. Behind the Deeping Wall, the ramshackle village had already begun to empty. “There is a passage in them that leads into the mountains, if they have need of it.”

Legolas nearly bit his tongue to keep back a dry retort, and Sakhra noticed. “They will not,” she said, without a shred of belief. But the words, hollow as they were, had a calming effect. “I suppose you boys will have need of armor, yes?”

“And you don’t?” the elf asked, glancing at her sharply. Now she was leading them, down the steps and towards the armory. He watched her shrug her shoulders, the motion smooth and quick.

 “I move faster without it,” she said. “I need speed, not a shield.”

Like he did in the warg battle, Legolas bristled at her bravado, and this time he was not the only one. “And when the Uruks overtake the wall and surround us, what use will your speed be then, lass?” Gimli said, his voice shockingly severe. “Your leather cannot turn steel.”

“Gimli,” Legolas growled, a warning if there ever was one. He did not like the dwarf’s words, and liked the thought of them less.

“Take a coat of mail, at least,” Aragorn said, hoping to stop this little skirmish before it began. He could see Sakhra’s point, knew that her training suited her to swift combat, but even she did not learn siegecraft in the guild of Umbar. “For our sake.”

Sakhra tried to wave them both off, her hand brushing through the air. “Your concern is touching, but I know my abilities better than any of you.”

“Sakhra-,” Legolas began, his voice soft, the voice he used to sooth spooked horses and animals. She did not take kindly to that.

The door to the armory rose before them, opened wide to let in the throng of Rohirrim. Already they jostled within, picking over the iron of the Deep. Before they could enter, Sakhra turned sharply, facing her friends so they could see her resolve plainly.

“I cannot move in mail, nor plate, and I am no use slow,” she said, careful to keep her words steady. “And none of you should spare a thought for me tonight. All our wits must be forward, on what we see, on _staying alive._ ” She tried not to let her gaze stray, but her eyes found Legolas anyway. “It is not only Rohan who depends on us.”

_No_ , Legolas thought mournfully, _it is the entire world._

Inside the armory was like a battle itself. Iron clanged on iron as men pawed through the stores of weapons and armor, while the grindstones sang, sharpening blades for the siege. A fletcher in the corner was making arrows as fast as he could, handing them to a boy she recognized. _Brinden_. He filled the quivers quickly, in the way Legolas taught him. His hands were quick and true, but so small.

As they passed him, Sakhra quirked a smile at the boy, who returned the gesture. He handed her a quiver of well-made arrows, smaller and lighter than the rest. He had been saving it for her. “My lady,” he said, ducking in a shaky bow.

“Thank you, Brinden,” she replied, before moving on swiftly. Her voice was strangely thick, choked by emotion. Legolas perceived, but said nothing. She would not like to know her weakness and fear were so plain.

They moved swiftly through the armory, past the tables and racks of armor. Gimli and Aragorn helped themselves to chainmail, though the dwarf had a difficult time of it. Aragorn was more concerned with the state of the weaponry. There was not a fine blade in the heap, and all looked liable to shatter on contact with an Uruk shield. For himself, the elf took only a pair of hard-boiled leather pauldrons to cover his shoulders. Sakhra eyed his meager armor, feeling equal bursts of satisfaction and dread.

“Take a coat of mail, for our sake,” she echoed, smirking a little as she pawed through the leatherware. Legolas did not laugh, he could not find the heart to here, but smiled a bit.

She knew precisely what she wanted, but despaired at finding a Haradrim battle vest in the stores of Helm’s Deep. Instead, she settled for well-worn  leather gauntlets, a small leather jerkin, probably made for a squire, and a good deal of sword belts she could fit to her many daggers. For the rest, her own boots and sturdy leather leggings would have to suffice. The jerkin she could alter easily, splitting the sleeve seams, giving her arms the fullest range of movement. Finding war paint would be another battle entirely. The Elvish cloak would be left behind all-together. It would do her no use tonight.

The rest of her boys, Frell and Theomund and Hallas, were close by, sampling helmets. All were too big or too heavy or both, almost sending them toppling. On any other day, she would have laughed at the sight. Now it nearly broke her heart.

Aragorn followed her gaze, feeling for a moment the despair he was trying so hard to push away. “These are no soldiers,” he murmured. Indeed, they were surrounded by farmers and stablehands, men and boys who had never seen the wrong side of a sword. They would not last until midnight.

“Most have seen too many winters,” Gimli replied, his eyes on an old man walking with the aid of a crutch. In the other hand, he clutched an axe.

Legolas gripped the table in front of him tightly. “Or too few,” he said, glancing towards the young boys. Sakhra was barely listening, her eyes on the children, her hands quivering as she undid the stays of the jerkin. She was somewhere faraway, and Legolas feared she might never return.

“They’re frightened,” he continued, his voice stronger, harsher. It shocked her into looking up and seeing the elf she never wanted to see. _He is so afraid._ “You can see it in their eyes.”

Others were listening now, from Theoden’s battle-hardened men to the green boys. Long had they whispered about the miraculous heroes who came from the plains, and now they were learning the truth. The heroes, the king, the elf, the dwarf, and the dark maiden, were flesh and blood. They could fall. It frightened them more than the battle looming on the horizon, and Aragorn knew it quickly.

“Legolas,” he hissed, taking a step towards his friend, but the elf stepped back. Beyond Sakhra, beyond Aragorn, into a darker place.

“ _And they should be_ ,” he said, switching to Elvish in his anger and despair. Sakhra did not need to know the language to understand what he was saying. “ _Three hundred against ten thousand?_ ” The words spilled from his lips like blood or ice water. A damn had broken within him.

“ _They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras_.” Reason, Aragorn hoped, would bring his friend back from the abyss. Instead, Legolas plunged further in.

“ _Aragorn they cannot win this fight!_ ” _He must know that. He must know this will be our doom. Only then can we figure out a way to live._ Legolas’s mind spun, speaking and thinking at the same time. His gaze flickered, moving between his friends, always returning to the Hasharina. She was staring, her mouth open a little, trying to figure out what she could say.

Sakhra stepped forward, a hand outstretched, meaning to embrace him as she did on the cliff when they believed Aragorn dead. But this time, he stepped away from her grasp, letting her fingers brush nothing but air. Embraces were not what he wanted now, not from her. Not from what he was about to lose.

“ _They are all going to die,_ ” he said, his voice breaking even in melodic Elvish. “ _We are all going to die._ ”

They were words not even the calm Aragorn could stomach. “Then we shall die with them!” he shouted, his Elvish forgotten. A tiny gasp ran through the crowded, now quiet armory. Escaping with it was their will to win and resolve to fight.

The common tongue was like a slap across the face, startling Legolas from his despair. He furrowed his brow, staring at Aragorn, hoping there was some way to fix this. But he could think of nothing, and suffered the icy glare Aragorn threw at him before the man marched away.

Legolas took a step, but found his way barred by the dwarf who had been uncharacteristically silent. “Let him go, lad,” Gimli said gravely. He was looking on the elf with new eyes, seeing the heart beneath that was not so unlike his own. “Let him be.”

Pain crossed Legolas’s face, written in his furrowed brow, and his cold blue eyes swept to Sakhra. Her gaze was understanding, sympathetic even, but hard as stone. Shame came next, sweeping over him like a wave.

“We should prepare ourselves. Doom is coming,” she muttered, and walked out of the armory. They did not follow.

Like Aragorn, she sought solace and quiet. An empty room tucked away within the keep did nicely, allowing her to outfit herself without Gimli and Legolas’s protective eyes. The jerkin lost its sleeves, the shoulder seams splitting with a few pulls of her dagger. She did the same to her cloth tunic, and slipped the jerkin over the fabric, lacing it tightly. After a few bends and turns, she surmised that it would do her well. Her arms could move freely, and that mattered most. More of her tattoos came to light, snakes and wings and scorpions and words, but that was far past her thoughts.

The paint came next. She intended to barter for what she needed, paying in full, but the Rohirrim would not allow it. Even the old women heard of her bravery on the plains and they gave her red ochre, oil black, and ash white as she requested. One even pressed a looking glass into her hands with a sad smile. They knew she would stand upon the walls, the only woman to have done so since the time of shieldmaidens. They knew she would die there, like so many before.

Sakhra set to her work quickly, not wanting to waste time. Battle was coming. These few moments could be the last silence she heard.

The sight of her own face stilled her. She had not seen it in days, since the river in Lothlorien, and that was shrouded at best. Her eyes were darker, circled in what could be bruises, and her cheekbones had sharpened. But her braids, her prayers, and her tattoos remained. She was still Sakhra Shastaskar, Sakhra _Terazon_ , and she would fight. She would make many remember her name.

The paint felt like a shield over her skin, turning her into soldier of Old Harad, a Hasharina of legend. White lines down her arms, red on her lips and hands, black across her eyes. Heaven and earth and hell in each.

Even the Uruk-Hai would fear her tonight.

 

* * *

  

The ranger was not hard to find, not for her.

“He does not know how to be afraid.”

Aragorn turned to face her, his new coat of mail clinking with the motion. Sakhra leaned against the doorway, her war paint donned, hair braided, daggers belted, quiver full, and sword close at her side. Aragorn took in the sight of her with a smirk, almost proud of his friend’s gall even in the face of death. With her paint, bare arms, and long braid, she might as well put a bullseye on her chest. But he knew it would be no use arguing. _Let her die how she wishes._

“Please tell me Legolas did not send you here to fight his battles,” he replied instead, slipping a dagger into its sheath. “He owes me more than that.”

Sakhra frowned. “Do you really think so little of him?”

Aragorn hesitated, freezing up, before pulling his leather jerkin over his mail. He sighed aloud. “No, not all.” And then, in a smaller voice, “Helm’s Deep does not agree with us, I think.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “Leave it to Gandalf to get us in such a mess.”

To her surprise, Aragorn smirked, laughing a little. Against the fear in her heart, she joined him, pressing a painted hand to her mouth. Their laughter echoed off the stone walls. _Strange_ , she thought idly, _to hear such sounds in a grave_.

“If only you had a mumakil to complete your outfit,” Aragorn said, gesturing to her vest. As she moved closer, he could see it was painted too, covered in lines of black and white. He recognized the symbols and scratched language of her own people. _It is covered in prayers, but for what, I cannot decipher._ But Aragorn could guess. _For us, for herself, for Legolas. For Middle-Earth._

She shrugged, patting her leathers. “The Rohirrim were fresh out, unfortunately. But they do not want for arrows, that much is certain.”

“We shall need each one,” a familiar voice replied, and Legolas stepped into the low, stone chamber. He kept a reserved distance, his head bowed and his manner was strangely formal.

Aragorn bowed his head in turn, echoing some Elvish etiquette Sakhra did not understand. But Legolas did, and he took another step. With able hands, he lifted Aragorn’s mighty sword and presented it to his captain.

“We have trusted you this far,” he said, his teeth clicking against the words. “You have not led us astray.”

_No, he has not,_ Sakhra thought, reminiscing on their long journey. Aragorn had defended them and guided them through many dangers, over obstacles that would kill a lesser man. They were lucky to have him.

“I was wrong to despair,” Legolas pressed on, speaking before Aragorn could intervene. “Forgive me, Aragorn.”

Aragorn reached out, his jaw firm, but his eyes were gentle. He gripped Legolas’s shoulder in the Elvish manner, and spoke aloud in that tongue. “ _There is nothing to forgive. We are all afraid, and we all must overcome such fears tonight.”_

Grim but sure, Legolas returned the gesture, grasping Aragorn’s mailed arm. “ _We will, my friend. We will conquer all._ ”

The sight warmed Sakhra’s heart, and she all but laughed aloud when Gimli stumbled into the room, fighting with a mail shirt. It barely fit over his barrel chest, and clanged against the floor when it finally slipped down.

“It’s a little tight across the chest,” Gimli sputtered, trying in vain to roll up  his chainmail sleeves. The rest of him seemed prepared though, from the new braids in his beard to the new gleam of his axe. “And what are you supposed to be, missy?” he added, furrowing his brows in Sakhra’s direction.

Indeed, Legolas had barely noticed her before, he was so preoccupied with his apology. Now when he faced her fully, he had to grimace. Her arms were bare, her face painted, and her long braid trailed down her back. She was not armored, and while she bore daggers and her sword and a bow, they did him no comfort. She looked more like a stable boy playing at war than a soldier on the edge of doom.

“By the Valar, Sakhra,” he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

She stopped herself from rolling her eyes outright, but exchanged glances with Aragorn. He almost shrugged, wanting no part in this argument. _Useless men_. “I suppose you’d prefer me to wear plate armor, yes? Or better yet, to go in the caves with the rest of the women? Perhaps I’ll knit you a shirt while I listen to the storming of the keep?”

Like Sakhra, Legolas looked to Aragorn for some kind of reason. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and looked at the ceiling. “Somehow you manage to apologize to one friend only to insult another,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“You know we don’t mean that-,” Legolas began, his words trailing.

Her eyes sparked with angry life. It would do her well later. “Then what are you suggesting, that you know fighting Uruks better than I do?”

Gimli stepped forward, blustering. “No, lass-.”

“Because, as I recall, you all fought them for the first time at Amon Hen, same as I did. And was it not there that I nearly lost my head to one, because I was _too slow_? Is that not right?”

Now the dwarf looked at his feet, his eyes turned inward. He remembered that moment clearly, when he shattered an Uruk’s spine to save her life. Legolas also dwelt on that moment, when his famed bow was not quick enough to keep her from harm. It shamed him still, and he had to look away. When a flush colored his pale cheeks, Sakhra knew she had won this small battle.

“I do not mean to be cruel to you,” she added, her voice softer and unfamiliar. “But this,” she gestured to herself, “is what I must be to survive this night.”

It was a great act of strength and humility to meet her gaze, but Legolas made himself do it. He nodded slowly, barely dipping his chin, but it was a nod all the same. She was a soldier just like him, and he needed to trust in her now. To trust that she could protect herself, even when he could not. Strange, in Moria, on the road, he felt no fear for the Hasharina, but now his every thought was poisoned with the emotion. What did this mean? What had changed?

In his heart, he began to understand. _You have changed, Legolas. She has made you change._ But why, he refused to say, even in the depths of his mind.

A horn blast echoed through the stone chamber, the strangeness of it drawing him out of his twisted thoughts. He cocked his head, listening with keen ears, and felt his heart soar. “That is no orc horn!” he said aloud, and darted from the room.

The Hunters were hot on his trail, crashing through the Deep until they came to the courtyard before the gate. Above them, on the keep wall, the gatekeepers were looking on something in awe. King Theoden himself stared at the open gate, watching as a great host in dark cloaks marched into the courtyard. Their leader, fair-haired with a crimson cape, stood before the king.

Sakhra nearly gasped. She recognized him.

“I bring word from the Lady Galadriel, and Elrond of Rivendell, Haldir of Lothlorien said aloud, his strong voice carrying across the courtyard, even as his elven warriors continued marching. “An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and died together. We come to honor that allegiance.”

Theoden could only nod, not able to find the words to thank Haldir. Near two hundred elves had entered the gates of Helm’s Deep, all in gleaming armor, with deadly swords and bows. Each one looked hardened, battle-worn, and ready for the siege at hand. Not even an emperor could ask for a finer army.

The shock wore off Aragorn first, and he stepped forward to embrace Haldier. “You are most welcome,” he laughed, stepping back to allow the elf to collect himself.

“We Elves do not want for glory,” Haldir replied, straightening his cloak, “But we thought it was time you shared a bit of it. Prince Legolas,” he added, clasping arms with the woodland prince. He even nodded at Gimli before his eyes found Sakhra. To his credit, he didn’t flinch at her strange appearance. “Lady Sakhra, you have fulfilled a wish of mine.”

Like Aragorn, she embraced the elf with both arms. “If you say save a damsel in distress,” she warned, smirking as she did so.

“Not at all,” he chuckled. “Instead, I have always desired to see the lands of the South. Now before me stands a Haradrim warrior, and one who fights at my side. It is truly an honor to stand with you all.” Then louder, so the Rohirrim could hear him. “We are proud to fight alongside men once more!”

The cheer that went up over the Deep was deafening, as loud as the horn of Helm Hammerhand. It was answered by the distant peals of thunder, a herald of the storm to come. 


	22. Teeth and Iron and Steel

The coming of the elves shifted their plans for battle, and Sakhra felt her heart lift a little. Elven archers would stand on the Deeping Wall, and more would wait in reserve, with Aragorn and Haldir to lead them. The Rohirrim would man the keep and the gate, protecting the causeway from assault. Her young boys would be protected for as long as possible, kept safe by many gates, walls, and elven arrows. With any luck, they would never see the sharp end of a sword. But Sakhra did not expect any more luck tonight.

The scouts returned as storm clouds rolled across the darkening sky. They were breathless and wide-eyed, confirming what all knew. Ten thousand Uruks marched on Helm's Deep. They were armed with pikes and swords, ladders and a great battering ram. Already their torches could be seen on the horizon, steadily approaching. The elves could hear their armor clanking with each step, a metal, horrid sound. It shivered Legolas's bones.

"To arms," was all King Theoden said, his eyes flashing at his captains. Aragorn nodded, his look grim, and repeated the order in Elvish. It rippled through the ranks, sending the elves into position, until only Haldir and the Four Hunters remained in the courtyard. They watched in silence as the Rohirrim scurried off, letting the sound of locking gates and full quivers wash over them.

In her head, Sakhra prayed to every god she knew. They owed her no favors, but still she asked for her friends' safety that night. She _begged_.

Haldir was first to move, clasping Legolas's shoulder in the Elvish manner. The Prince of Mirkwood returned the gesture, dipping his head. "We will meet again," Haldir said, careful to use the common tongue, despite the Elvish saying.

"We will meet again," Legolas echoed. The words felt hollow and false.

When Haldir stepped back from the prince, his eyes swept across the others, a bitter smile on his features. He nodded to them in turn. "It is an honor," was all he said, and that was more than enough. He left them alone, his crimson cape snapping in the cold wind.

"I'll not tolerate good-byes," Gimli said gruffly, though his eyes were dark. He glared at each of them in turn, daring them to cross him.

"I don't plan on saying any," Aragorn replied.

Sakhra nodded, squaring her shoulders. "Nor I."

"Nor I." Legolas's voice was stronger than he expected it to be. _I sound like my father._ For once, the thought cheered him.

Aragorn was their captain, and it was to him they looked. He did not want to do it, but he drew a shaky breath and glanced up the stone steps, to the wall they would defend. "We will make them rue this night," he murmured, his grim voice carrying on the wind. "We will make them wish they never saw this place."

Sakhra felt herself nod, a manic grin pulling at her lips. Her muscles tightened, taut as wire, and a beast roared up in her, eating at her fear. She was a weapon tempered in fire, made for this very moment. All her life had lead to this, when her sword could save – or destroy – the world entire. This battle could be the end, or the beginning. _Necessary darkness._ Worse than the guild, worse than Moria, worse than the black reaches of her mind. But they must fight through. They must find the path to light. They _must_.

A war cry rumbled from Gimli, and he was the first up the stone steps. His iron-shod feet clanged like a funeral bell. Legolas was not one to be outdone, and followed the dwarf with square shoulders and his chin high. He was a prince of the Woodland Realm. His bow was all he needed now. His bow and his friends.

He didn't need to turn around to know Sakhra was on his heels, her breath measured and even. She glared out at the valley, eyes bright even in the nightfall. The black paint darkened her gaze and sharpened her face, transforming her into someone else. _What I must be to survive this night_ , she had said. And though Legolas missed her simple braids, her familiar leathers, and her face free of the war paint that was her new veil, he was grateful for them. They would help her fight, and help her live.

Aragorn followed last, his steps firm as an iron crown. The sword at his side was a blessed weight, familiar and true. Soon he would draw the blade, and face darkness like he never had before. Soon he would learn – king or wanderer, captain or soldier, live or die? _What strength is in my blood has yet to be tested._

He fell into place next to Haldir, letting the others move further down the wall, to the place Legolas had chosen earlier. He liked it best, allowing him full view of the wall and what would become the killing field. Gimli was not so enamored, struggling to see over the stone rampart.

"You could've picked a better spot," he grumbled, hopping on heavy feet. Over his head, Legolas and Sakhra exchanged easy smiles. Despite the Uruk army, approaching like a black wave, they fought dark laughter.

Legolas removed his bow, nudging Gimli with the gift of Galadriel. "Shall I describe it to you?" he said. "Or would you like me to find me a box?"

Then it was Gimli's turn to laugh. But it was soon drowned out by another clap of thunder and a flash of lightning. For a brief moment, the world seemed bathed in sunlight, and even Sakhra could see the glare slice off Uruk armor. They were close now, close enough to hear. Most howled, too guttural to understand, but some were chanting with every step.

For once, Sakhra wished she could not understand their foul tongue.

_Kill the men, storm the keep._

_Let fire break on stone._

_Death, death, death to the Deep._

_Let Gondor stand alone._

She wrenched her gaze away, not wanting her last thoughts before battle to be of the world's end. Instead, she turned to Legolas, and found him already staring at her. Words failed them both, so they exchanged glances full of fire instead. They had arrows, armor, and enough courage to rouse an army, but no time. No time at all.

_After_ echoed in Legolas's mind. _After, after, after_.

Farther down the wall, Aragorn's Elvish barked through the night. " _Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none!_ " As he spoke, the Uruks entered the range of Elvish bowmen, and the skies began to weep.

Rain pelted down, cold and hard, and Sakhra was glad she had left the cloak behind. It would only weigh her down, now more than ever. She shivered once, twice, before willing herself to ignore the rain and the cold. They would not slow her tonight. Nothing would.

Below in the valley, an Uruk roar sounded above the din, and they stopped their march. For a moment, the Uruks were silent, as if daring the Deep to come and get them. In the keep, the Rohirrim drew their strong bows, and waited for the call to strike. When the Uruks pounded their pikes against the ground, the rumble as loud as a giant's steps, a few flinched, and arrows flew through the air. One or two found home, felling the first Uruks of the night. They would not be the last.

" _Hold!_ " Aragorn cried in Elvish, his tone enough to communicate his meaning. No more arrows flew, and the keep was still.

But the Uruks were not. With another roar from their unseen captain, they surged forward, all discipline forgotten. They were mindless again, bent on destruction and death and destroying Helm's Deep. As they charged, Sakhra felt the world fall away, and knew she was standing on a great precipice. Would she fall, or would she fly?

All around, the elves drew their great bows, putting arrows to the string. The air pounded with the Uruk charge and the tightening of bowstrings. Sakhra's own fingers quivered as they held an arrow. Not with fear, but anticipation. She was done waiting for death. The time had come to dance, and she knew the steps well.

Aragorn's Elvish cry echoed against the thunder and near two hundred arrows took flight. Each one found home in Uruk flesh. Blood was drawn, and it ran black as the starless, stormy sky.

"One, two," Legolas murmured, counting under his breath as arrows flew from his bow. He had not forgotten his wager, and neither had Gimli. The dwarf shook next to the elf, eager to start a count of his own.

"That's not fair," the dwarf grumbled. His grip tightened on his axe, waiting for the moment when he would loose iron on Uruk throats.

Sakhra was not so brazen. She was a Hasharin, yes, but also human. She could not afford to waste her thoughts on counting. Now the battle was her world, her focus narrowed to her bow and the black tide rushing at the wall. She didn't bother to watch her arrows fly, turning only to the next target and the next twang of the bow.

If only that was the battle entire.

The bows of the elves would not go unanswered. The click of crossbows sounded across the valley, and great black iron bolts pierced the sky, matching the volley of arrows. Crossbows were harder to load, but easier to aim, and many elves and Rohirrim met their end at the tip of a bolt. One grazed past Sakhra, ruffling her braided hair as she ducked against the rampart. Legolas killed the bowman for his trouble, wasting two arrows to end him properly.

"Waste not," Sakhra chided, turning over her shoulder to take down an Uruk targeting the keep. Legolas brushed past her, their shoulders barely touching, as he moved to better his aim. It was like Amon Hen again, where they moved in deadly rhythm.

Soon enough, Gimli would join their game.

Iron grated on stone, and ladders rose against the walls of the Deep. They were black and rusted, but strong, with hinged claws to fix themselves to the wall. They fell with the clanging of terrible bells, shattering stone and man both. Aragorn and Haldir managed to throw off the first ladder, catching it before it could latch in place, but the rest stood firm.

Aragorn was no fool, and knew the time for arrows had passed.

"Swords!" he shouted, and the elves around him drew their curved blades.

The ranger tightened his grip on his own sword, ready to blacken his steel with Uruk blood. Like Sakhra, his fear had faded. All thoughts of Gondor, of his birthright, of the elven maiden he left behind, were gone. There was only Helm's Deep and the night.

Berserkers leapt from the ladders to the ramparts, the first of the foul army to do so, and met elves at every turn. But they were chosen for this, bred for this. Muscle-bound and crazed, painted with the White Hand of Saruman, the berserkers fought with cruel, hooked swords, using them to sweep away everything in their path. Behind them, Uruks surged forth, crawling up the ladders like beetles on a branch.

Gimli felt no fear at the sight of such creatures. Instead, he cheered as he raised his axe, rattling his chain mail, and chopped at a berserker that had the misfortune to land in front of him. It fell to its knees and lost is head in the same motion, wriggling on the stone.

Sakhra's own blade was already spinning in her hand, the grip cold and familiar. She had not even thought to draw the sword – it was second nature now. Her body reacted before her mind, as it was trained to do. She assumed the Uruks would be drawn to her and her strange appearance, and she was correct. But they were heavy, lumbering, surrounded by swift-footed elves on slippery, wet ramparts. The few who made it to her without dying met her blade with surprise. One after another toppled from the wall, bleeding from a dozen quick and deadly wounds.

"Two already!" she heard dimly, from farther away than she thought Gimli would be. A quick glance told her the battle was separating them, pushing the Hunters away from each other.

_A fight between two is push and pull. It can be swayed. A battle changes like the sea. It can only be endured._ The old teacher, Tazir the Blind, had told her that. He was wizened, wrinkled like old leather, with clouded white eyes - and he was able to defeat each and every member of the guild. His words guided her now. So even though she would have liked to fight her way back to Legolas and Gimli, she knew that would end poorly, perhaps fatally. The tide would take her back eventually, but now she could only endure.

Though three thousand years old, Legolas had never learned such wisdom. He was an elf, trained by bowmen and his own father, the greatest warrior remaining in Middle-Earth. Thranduil the Elvenking was a sea himself, one to _be_ endured, and he taught his son to be the same. No battle would keep Legolas Greenleaf from what he desired. It would only slow him down.

He did not bother calling her name. It would be a distraction to them both, as well as Gimli and Aragorn. She was fighting well on her own, cutting a path at her own pace. Instead, Legolas followed, making sure to keep Gimli close. _The dwarf is a good rearguard, I'll give him that_ , the elf thought, sparing a glance for the many bodies Gimli left in his wake.

"Eleven, damned girl running off, twelve," Gimli grumbled, gutting an Uruk without so much as a blink.

"I've got her, twenty-four," Legolas replied. He didn't notice that his count had slowed, his arrows leaving the string in lesser number. Soon his bow would be no use at all. But the Uruks had not touched him yet. They were far too slow for the Prince of the Woodland Realm.

How much time passed on the walls, Sakhra could not say. She buried her dagger to the hilt in an Uruk's stomach, enjoying the sound of its dying roar. A little too much, it seemed. As the screaming beast fell, its jaws ripped at her shoulder, tearing at the muscle and flesh of her dagger arm. She did not shout, not wanting to give it the pleasure of her pain, but felt it keenly. Now red blood joined the black on her leathers, running thick and hot from her first wound of the night. Against the white war paint, her blood seemed to glow.

In spite of her pride, Sakhra let herself stagger, falling back into the line of Elvish warriors to find a moment of respite. She expected Legolas to jump to her side with his usual glare, but Haldir took her arm instead.

"He missed the meat," the elf said, wiping away most of her blood with his crimson cape. "Can you still hold a dagger?"

Sakhra all but laughed, twisting her blade through the air. "Do Uruks stink, Haldir?" she said grimly. Her shoulder stung with the motion, but no more than she could handle. After all, the guild had tempered her in pain. Very little could keep her from this battle now.

"They do indeed," Haldir replied with a smirk, turning back into the fray. After a deep breath, she followed. One swift push and she unbalanced an Uruk entirely, sending it toppling over the rampart to the earth below.

To her delight, she found Aragorn battling next to her. He shouted commands after every stroke of his sword, directing the elves to the thicker ladders and chokepoints. _A true captain_ , Sakhra thought. At his side, she enjoyed a little reprieve; enough to fight one handed and give her wounded shoulder some rest.

Aragorn saw her war paint first, almost startling at the sight. He had fought against the Haradrim long ago, and remembered their warriors well. _It is only Sakhra_ , he reminded himself, glad that his mind was quick enough to stay his blow. Then he saw the blood at the point between her arm and neck, still oozing from the wound. "Your shoulder?" he questioned, cleaving an Uruk's skull in two.

"Jealous I have the honor of shedding first blood?" she shouted back, already tired of his nannying.

Instead, Aragorn spat on the ground and grinned, showing bloody teeth. "Not the first," he said. But for the battle, Sakhra would have doubled with laughter. "We need to unhook the ladders, or we'll be overrun."

Sakhra nodded, agreeing, and glanced at a ladder a few yards away. Her gaze stilled on a familiar elf and dwarf, both of them enjoying their deadly game. Next to them, the hinges rattled, bouncing as each heavy Uruk ascended to the top.

"Tell some archers to cover me and I'll do my best," she said, before clambering onto the rampart. Aragorn had no time to argue, only to obey, and instructed a few of the elves to watch the army, picking off crossbowmen wherever they could.

Meanwhile, Sakhra sprinted down the wall, her balance sure, leaping over outstretched arms and swords. Her timing was perfect, catching the ladder hinges as they bounced. It was nothing to lift and push, using the Uruks' own weight and momentum to send them falling backwards to a crushing death.

"It's like you're _trying_ to be foolish," Legolas growled, throwing an arm around her waist. He pulled her from the rampart without ceremony, almost tossing them both to the ground in his haste. Sakhra thought she saw fear in his eyes, but only for a moment before anger replaced it. _What a temper he has_ , she mused.

"Foolish?" Gimli crowed from beside them. He was grinning through a beard stained with orc blood. "The girl's got the right idea!"

With a leap Sakhra had not thought possible from a dwarf, he vaulted up and onto the rampart. There were two ladders on either side of him, each one spitting Uruks up to the wall. They soon met the sharp end of Gimli's axe as he twisted from side to side, cutting through Uruks like a woodcutter through trees.

"Seventeen!" he hooted, almost laughing. "Eighteen! Nineteen!"

Legolas almost groaned allowed, and hurried to the rampart, his bow raised. _As soon as one is safe, the other steps into the face of danger_ , he thought, firing arrows into the host below. To another, he might seem like an annoyed father watching over two clumsy children. But in his heart, the prince knew his friends were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

Still, he was glad that Sakhra kept close this time, her back almost brushing him. He could hear her heart beating and her sword cleaving the air, protecting him from any who might seek to challenge the Prince of the Woodland Realm.

Farther down the wall, Aragorn was fighting a foe out of their range. "The causeway!" he shouted, directing the archers around him to fire on the great stone bridge leading up to Helm's Deep. There, a horde of Uruks covered by shields was making their slow advance, marching towards the gate and the keep. Arrows and rocks clanged off their shields, raining down from the Rohirrim defending the Deep. But Aragorn's archers had better luck, enjoying a different angle on the causeway. Their arrows penetrated deep and true, felling many of the foul beasts.

But as was the story of the night, more came. More and more and more.

So preoccupied with the causeway was Aragorn that he did not see the doom beneath his own feet, at the culvert at the base of the Deeping Wall. Already Saruman's great weapon had been brought forth, in great iron caskets lined with spikes. Inside, a deadly power, a harbinger of the age he sought to unleash upon Middle-Earth. _Fire to break stone._ Only when a berserker surged through the great host, a torch held high, did he realize something was terribly wrong.

"Legolas!" His roar rang out over the Deep, drawing the other Hunters in. Sakhra barely had time to understand what her captain was doing, gesturing to the army below, but Legolas knew. "Bring him down!" Aragorn shouted in Elvish, pointing to the torch-bearer.

The elf prince's aim was true. He buried an arrow in the berserker's muscled shoulder, a blow that would usually kill. But it kept running, almost screaming through its iron mask. Sakhra watched in dismay, not knowing what was coming, but knowing it would be terrible. Another arrow arced from Legolas's bow, another true shot.

But it was too late. With its dying breath, the berserker leapt forward, torch raised, and disappearing into the culvert drain.

It was met by a blinding flash and a deafening crack of thunder, as if lightning had struck the deep. The wall exploded above the drain, obliterating into rubble and dust, destroying Uruk and elf alike. The force sent Aragorn spinning to the ground, while Gimli toppled from his own rampart, landing hard on Sakhra and Legolas, who were already crouched together against the blast.

There was a long moment of shocked silence, from man and beast both. None knew what they had just seen. The work of wizards, the fist of gods, or something more terrible? _Doom_ , Sakhra thought, daring to raise her head through the dust and smoke.

She nearly gasped at the sight. The wall had broken, split apart by Saruman's strange fire. And Uruks rushed forward, blood overflowing the wound, as they took their first steps into Helm's Deep.

"The wall is breached," she muttered, almost dazed by the thought. _It is over._

On the causeway, the Uruk shield wall buckled, and the horde produced a great battering ram. They had been waiting for this moment, to strike at once with two weapons. The ram, hard oak and iron, smashed against the gate.

Sakhra did not see if it shattered, because a hand took her face, turning her away. "It's not over," Legolas said, his words fervent as a prayer. He forced her to look in his eyes, to see his own fear – and resolve. _It's my turn to make her believe._ "It's not."

She grabbed his wrist, feeling the taut muscle and bone there. His strength gave her courage and she nodded, enjoying the feel of his skin on hers. "We must get back to the keep. The wall is lost."

He nodded, agreeing, and pulled them both to their feet. "Gimli, with us-!"

But Gimli was already running for the edge of the wall, leaping where the stone had been broken.

"Gimli!" Sakhra shouted, but he was already gone, landing hard on the ground below. "Foolish dwarf!"

And then she saw why. Aragorn was down there, his back defended by the dozens of elves in reserve. But they stood against the breach, against near ten thousand Uruk brutes now sprinting into the Deep. Gimli was doing his best to use the chokepoint of the breach, but even the hardy dwarven warrior was not enough.

She did not need to tell Legolas to follow her. In fact, he was already on the move, sliding down the stone stairs upon a shield. His bow sang as he descended, picking off Uruks here and there. Sakhra was not so flashy, taking the stairs as a human would, her sword and dagger in both hands.

The ground was a melee, a nightmare of teeth and steel and iron. Again, she found the tide of battle pulling at her, trying to force her away from her friends. But now Sakhra could not be swept up in it, no matter what her teachings said. Now that the rain had cleared, her face and long braid were easy to spot, and the long arms of Uruks grabbed at her. She ignored their hissed words, cutting as many throats as she could, but Legolas and Gimli and Aragorn were always there to back her.

Sakhra did not know how many she killed or how many bodies she stepped over, Uruk and elf alike. Soon she could not bear to look down, knowing she would not see the dull iron of Isengard, but the polished steel and silk of Lothlorien soldiers. They were dying all around, _elves_ , and it nearly blinded her with rage and fear.

One took a blade in the gut, a blonde warrior who looked so much like Legolas she nearly wept. He seemed confused by the pain and prospect of dying. But die he did.

Her own wounds grew in number, joining the throbbing pain in her shoulder. Claws ripped across her cheek, a finger was sprained if not broken, and blood dampened her leather leggings at the knee. A shield caught her in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs and she staggered to her knees, struggling for breath.

Aragorn was there to pull her up, his eyes wide and wild. Like her, his injuries were numerous. "Retreat," she said, clutching his mail to hoist herself up. "We must."

When Theoden's voice echoed above them, calling down from the keep, the Hasharina was finally grateful for the Rohirrim king. "Aragorn!" the king shouted. "Fall back to the keep! Get your men out of there!"

The Gondorian captain wasted no time and repeated the orders in Elvish. He shouted to Haldir, still on the walls, who echoed the command to his own men.

_I am no use like this_ , Sakhra knew, and followed the retreating elves up the steps to the keep. Legolas was close behind, dragging Gimli away from the battle. Though the dwarf kicked and shouted, his attention was on Sakhra and her faltering steps. He could hear her breath, still wheezing after the blow, and once or twice he reached out to steady her.

As they climbed towards the keep, the throbbing blows of the battering ram grew louder. Sakhra had almost forgotten it in the battle below and fear stole into her again. The outer keep would soon be lost too, and they would be trapped. Rats in a cage, sheep to the slaughter.

The crack of wood echoed as they set foot inside the courtyard, and Legolas finally let Gimli down. "Cheat!" the dwarf shouted, but there was no anger. He knew the wall was lost.

"I'll remember that next time," Legolas replied, before turning to Sakhra with concern. Judging by what his elf ears heard below, the lower gate had been bolted shut, and they had some time still. "You're wounded."

In the torchlight, to her own dismay, Sakhra could see that Legolas was little more than dirty and winded. She, on the other hand, looked like she'd been through a mill backwards. "I'm fine," she began, sheathing her sword with a twinge of pain. But her pride would not let her win out, and she slumped against the stone wall. "I just need a moment."

"You have it," Legolas replied, pulling up a barrel for her to sit on. She gladly took it, and began to take stock of her wounds. In his wisdom, Aragorn had the keep and courtyard stocked with bandages before the siege began. She grabbed at the ones in reach with one hand, and waved off her friends with the other. "The gate is broken, you must go."

To her surprise, Legolas stood firm. He even turned to the dwarf. "You go on, Gimli."

"But the wager-," the dwarf began.

"I cheated," Legolas said quickly.

Though the dwarf knew better, his eyes darting between Sakhra and the elf, he nodded gruffly. "It's only fair," he said, before bumbling off towards the gate where Theoden and Aragorn were already fighting off another rout.

"You didn't have to do that," Sakhra muttered, her eyes almost glowing in the weak torchlight of the courtyard. Legolas only shrugged and dropped to one knee next to her. He took the bandage from her hand, and gingerly began to wrap her shoulder.

No one seemed to notice the prince and the Hasharina tucked away, protected for a moment, from the storm breaking all around.

His hands were so gentle for a warrior. Sakhra had heard tell of Elvish medicine, but this was different. There were no strange prayers, no brewed herbs. Just calm, quiet motions to contrast the destruction of the Deep. In the back of her mind, Sakhra wished she could sit there forever, on a barrel with her back against cold wall and Legolas at her feet. Kings had died with fewer riches.

What she felt in the armory, on the plains, beside a stream in Lothlorien, when she saw Legolas in the faces of the dead, threatened to overwhelm her. She felt she would choke if she did not speak, but there were no words she could say. Not here, not surrounded by death. Not as she was, an assassin, a common killer, a whore, all the terrible things she had been called. He was a prince, an elf, a pure ray of sunlight on green trees. She was but a shadow, and a fleeting one. She was nothing to him.

Legolas felt her skin go cold under his touch and he was shocked by a moment of fear. But she was fine, her eyes still bright, her breath strong. It was fear, not death, chilling her.

As he had on the wall, when she had lost hope, he wanted to take her face in his hands. But there were more wounds to be bandaged, and he did not trust himself to touch her again. Not here, not now.

_After_ , he thought.


	23. A Red Dawn

The last of the elves fleeing the Deeping Wall rushed by, less than Sakhra hoped there would be. Many were wounded. She looked past Legolas, her eyes straining to glimpse a crimson cape, but she saw none. Legolas was searching too, hoping against hope, but the prince knew deep in his heart who died on the walls. He had heard Aragorn's anguished cry, a call like no other. Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlorien, had not survived Helm's Deep.

After a long breath, Sakhra did her best to fight off the anguish threatening to destroy her heart. "We will bury him after," was all she said, pushing herself up from the barrel. For a moment her face was shrouded by shadow, allowing her enough time to collect her feelings. She checked her sword and daggers, pulling her leathers back into place. Anything to keep herself occupied in this moment of grief.

She was an agent of death once, and had seen many die. The innocent, the guilty, the wicked, the kind. But none so strong as Haldir, so undeserving of death's bleak ending. _Anyone can fall_ , she knew, but pushed the thought away. Such distractions could cost her dearly – her own life, or worse, another's. Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn. She knew without question that she would die for any of them. It was a strange realization to have in the middle of a siege, but a welcome one. Now she knew her limit – and that was _nothing_.

Ignoring the pain in her shoulder and the gash above her knee, she pushed herself into a sprint, hastening to catch up with the Gimli. Legolas followed, knowing their brief moment of peace in war was broken. Perhaps never to return.

Grimly, he drew his bow, and put an arrow to the string as the sounds of Uruk-Hai grew close.

They emerged into the central courtyard of the keep to find the elves and the men of Rohan forming disheveled ranks. Without thought, Legolas shouted in Elvish, commanding his kin into organized lines. They obeyed the Prince of the Woodland Realm as they did Haldir and Aragorn, and settled in for the defense of the keep. The Rohirrim were not so easily cowed, not understanding the Elvish tongue, and did their best to fall in with the elves. For her own part, Sakhra slipped away, squeezing through the gate tunnel crowded with Rohirrim soldiers.

Theoden passed by her, half-supported by his lieutenant Gamling. For a moment, Sakhra balked, noting the way he held his shoulder. _The king was injured._ But one grim nod from the king quelled her fears. Theoden was made of stronger stuff than she thought, and it cheered her heart a little.

The ranks of the soldiers became too thick for eve Sakhra to slip through, and she dodged Rohirrim spear thrusts at every turn. But her friends were nowhere in sight, and certainly not in the tunnel, guarding the broken gate as she assumed they would be. _Where?_ she thought, searching for their faces.

As if in reply, a gap in the soldiers parted, revealing the causeway and the horde of Uruks beyond. She let loose a colorful string of Haradaic curses at the sight.

Aragorn and Gimli stood alone on the causeway, fighting back to back, singlehandedly holding off the army. Sword and ax broke against black iron armor, cleaving through muscle, flesh, and bone. It was an astounding sight, and for an assassin of the Hasharin, invigorating. She knew Aragorn and Gimli were great warriors, but this would make them legendary. _The king and the dwarf, like a tale of old._ They were buying time, giving the Rohirrim the precious moments needed to repair the gate and survive the night. But would they?

"Stupid, foolhardy," she growled before falling back into Haradaic as she shoved forward. Planks of wood went with her, passed hand over hand, and the tunnel echoed with the hammering of nails.

She quickened her pace, hoping to reach the gate before it was shut up forever. Her sword was in her hand, cool and thirsting for black Uruk blood. The gate loomed, a few feet away, but a gauntleted hand caught her arm from behind.

"Get back to the keep," the King of Rohan said, though his eyes forward. There was a hasty bandage on his shoulder, much like her own. "The gate will not hold for long."

Forgetting, or ignoring, her manners, Sakhra wrenched her arm from his grip. "I don't take orders from you," she growled, picturing her friends dead on the causeway. But when she turned back to the gate, she saw nothing but wood planks and braced shoulders.

The gate was repaired, the way shut. Aragorn and Gimli were abandoned.

_Not by me._

Again she cursed, this time barely more than a hiss, and sprinted from the tunnel. She didn't bother to look back. If the king survived long enough to punish her disrespect, she would face him gladly, but not now. Not while her friends' lives were hanging in the balance.

Legolas was waiting in the courtyard, bow in hand. "Where are they?" he asked, brow furrowed in fear and anger.

She didn't have time to answer and kept running. He knew her well enough to follow, and overtook her on the steps to the rampart above. She kept close, grabbing a coil of rope as she ran, her heart hammering in her chest. When she reached the rampart, crowded with soldiers and bowmen alike, Legolas was already there. He leaned far over, his face pulled in concentration.

"Here!" she tossed the rope, marveling as he caught it without a single glance her way. In the same motion, he threw the rope down to the causeway, wrapping the rest around his hands.

She took the slack and braced her feet, shouting against the din of the ramparts. "Grab the rope!" she called, her voice made of such steel the Rohirrim jumped to attention. Three burly men were at her back in an instant, ready to pull.

The line went taut, straining under the weight of Aragorn and Gimli. "Pull!" Legolas roared, hauling the rope hand over hand with the strength of two men. Sakhra did as she was told, ignoring the burning pain in her shoulder. She was quietly grateful for the Rohirrim, who were doing much more than she for her friends' fate.

When Aragorn's head appeared over the rampart, his face red with the exertion of hauling a dwarf in full armor, she nearly dropped the rope in relief. Legolas was not affected, and grabbed Aragorn by the collar, bodily hurling him up and over the rampart. They collapsed to the stone, both breathing hard, quietly grateful for safety and a moment of respite.

"And you think me reckless," Sakhra tutted, her eyes on Legolas as she helped Gimli to his feet.

"I believe the word was _foolish_ ," he replied evenly, offering Aragorn a hand. The man took it gladly, heaving himself to his feet. He spat blood and tightened his belt, sword stil in hand. He had no time to trade quips on the eve of such doom.

Gimli himself was laughing, examining his bloody axe. "Fourteen down there," he chuckled, gesturing back to the causeway. "In case you were wondering."

In response, Legolas nocked a pair of arrows to his bow, firing both into the Uruks below them. Two foul creatures screamed a moment later, dying poorly. But they were only two in a sea of hundreds, thousands, all swarming towards the battered gate.

"It won't hold much longer, even with reinforcements," Sakhra muttered, glaring down at the causeway.

Most of the Uruks below were beserkers, mad with blood lust, but a few crossbowmen darted back and forth, firing up at the keep. She shifted, turning her shoulder so a crossbow bolt flew right past her. More followed, forcing them back from the ramparts. And below, Uruks crashed against the hastily repaired gate. Even now she could hear the creak of wood, soon to splinter. Every blow rattled the stones beneath them, an earthquake made of doom.

"Fall back!" echoed from below, again and again until it sprang from every mouth. "Fall back!"

It was not in Aragorn's nature to retreat, but he was not a fool. Neither was Legolas, and even Gimli knew to stay was to die. There would be no glory in such an ending, and no one left to sing of their passing. It was a death none of them deserved.

"Fall back," the dwarf growled. Coming from him, a warrior who had to be dragged from every battle, it felt like total surrender.

On another day, without ten thousand raging Uruks bent on destruction, Sakhra would've scolded her friends for pushing her ahead, guarding their escape. But the gate had splintered, breaking with an immense crack that sounded like snapping bone. She could hear the Uruks as she flew down the steps, two at a time, her feet barely touching the stone. She could smell them stampeding into the courtyard, stinking of blood and sweat and deepest darkness. She could taste them on the air, a sour, putrid flavor to poison her mouth. She could feel their footsteps, banging into the keep, shaking like an earthquake. So many and so fast, more than she thought there could possibly be. They were already in the courtyard, dozens of them, howling for flesh. Their black iron met steel with a clang like a thousand horrid bells.

A head rolled at her feet, its blonde hair stained red, forcing her to leap. She landed hard, almost colliding with a muscled Uruk cutting his way through the Rohirrim. His blade swung, aiming for her neck, and she had to roll beneath his strike. Her shoulder screamed beneath her but she turned from the pain, thinking only of her sword and dagger. They came up to block another killing blow, leaving the massive Uruk vulnerable. Legolas's white blades slit his throat for her, before the elf turned his desperate wrath on another foe.

Many Uruks found the single woman amongst the company of men, drawn to her sight and scent. They screamed in their language, loathsome, foul things she would never repeat, not to anyone. Most tried to kill her. Some, overtaken by the craze of battle and their own bloodlust, tried to do other things. But every dark hand that touched her skin, every yank of her hair, was paid for in Uruk blood. She found her rhythm, as she always dig. _Sword, dagger, turn. Sword, dagger, turn._ It served her well.

_Fall back_ wove through the song of blood and blades, echoing from the lips of captains, soldiers, children, and the dying. Once Sakhra thought she saw one of the boys, Frell, the butcher's apprentice, with a knife glinting in each hand. They gleamed red and bit like rat's teeth, slicing legs and ankles with abandon. But the boy was limping, slowing with every second, and too far away to reach. She blinked and lost sight of him. She blinked again and forgot him.

The King of Rohan defended the courtyard as well as they did, flanked by his captains. Aragorn was with him too, his long sword moving in smooth, beautiful arcs. If Sakhra had the time, she would have committed the sight to memory. Isildur's Heir and the King of the Golden Hall fought side by side, warriors of the most noble blood. But Theoden was not Aragorn, and was not of Numenorean descent. He was aging, almost an old man, and the Battle of Helm's Deep had taken a high toll.

His captains knew it too and moved their king slowly, edging him back from the bloody courtyard. They moved up the steps backwards, raining down blows, protecting their own retreat. The defenders of the Deep followed suit, standing shoulder to shoulder as they fought. Despite the remaining elves, the Prince of Mirkwood, the dwarf berserker, an ancient Dunedain, and a Hasharina, the courtyard was soon awash in innocent blood. They were losing ground, and quickly.

The Rohirrim bowmen, hard pressed to keep up the pace needed to survive the onslaught, broke the line first. When they turned, sprinting for the inner keep, Sakhra knew the courtyard was lost. The Uruks would outflank them in moments, surrounding them in a circle of spears and teeth. The only answer, the only choice, was to run.

A few Uruks had already broken through to the last flight of stone stairs, trying to block their escape. Each one received a Mirkwood arrow through their throat instead. They were still falling, choking on blood, when Sakhra vaulted through the thick oak doors of the inner keep. Reinforced with iron and paneling, they shuddered but did not break. She kept running, feeling nothing but the clawing hands of Uruk-Hai until the cool stone of the far wall was beneath her fingers. She shivered against it, forcing herself to breathe, to pray, and to forget. It only took a moment, but that moment almost ruined her.

When she turned back around, the doors were shut and barred. Already soldiers braced themselves against the door, shoulders dug in against the onslaught. Gimli was one of them, and his dwarf-born strength was worth five hardy Rohirrim. He leaned hard, both palms flat against the wood. It shuddered beneath his fingers, but held firm.

"I think I've lost count," he said to no one.

Less than fifty men remained, and of those fifty, all were battered, if not entirely broken. Those who were not barricading or bracing the door leaned against walls, half-collapsed. Even Theoden himself had taken on an ill look, his gaze faraway as he stared at the flagstone floor.

"Bring water and bandages," Aragorn commanded, though he had no true claim over the remaining soldiers. Still, a pair of young squires limped away as fast as they could, and returned with what the ranger had asked for.

Instead of jostling for a drip of dirty water, Sakhra laid her cheek against the cold, unyielding stone and let her eyelids droop. She felt sore all over, raw from the inside out. It was like the old days at the guild, when Tazir and Bara and Jazan ruled her muscles and her mind. Tazir would train her in battle, Bara in the classroom, and Jazan in stealth. Jazan was the worst, beating students who could not hide what they stole. He broke three of her fingers when she was thirteen, the ones that allowed her to draw a bow.

She shivered at the memory, pressing the once-battered fingers together. They were a bit crooked in reminder, but they did their duty well enough. _I've lost a nail_ , she thought idly, examining a single, bloody fingertip.

"Drink," Legolas said, holding out a cup to her. While Sakhra could feel sweat and blood and smeared paint coating every inch of her body, the elf barely looked ruffled. There was a smear of dirt along one cheek, but somehow it made him look better. She almost snarled at the sight, but took the cup anyway.

"You better attend to yourself, Legolas," she said, a finger brushing his darkened cheek. "It's not appropriate for an elven prince to be so disheveled."

One corner of his mouth lifted, but a smile did not follow. "Drink, Sakhra," he said again, nudging the bottom of the cup.

It was not in her nature to be commanded, but Sakhra didn't mind it at the moment. She took a gulp, swishing it through her mouth, before spitting out a mix of blood and water onto the flagstones. The next gulp went down her throat. And the rest ended up on her face, dripping through her hair and down her neck. None of it made Legolas blink. He even held out a rag and watched her wipe the blood, sweat, and paint from her face.

_Better_ , he thought, seeing her dark skin shine through. This was the Sakhra he knew, free of masks and veils and paint. And this was the Sakhra he wanted to die with.

She quietly met his eyes, wanting nothing more than to drown in the clear pools of blue. His gaze silenced the voices in her head, the echoes of Uruk-Hai. It was like the falling of a curtain, slow and gentle and complete.

"What now?" she murmured, meaning so many things.

All she had to do was lean forward, to brace herself on him. Instead, she leaned back, finding the wall again. But she never broke their stare.

_After_ chorused in his head, the word so familiar it had almost lost all meaning. _But after is not coming._

Legolas was a Prince of the Woodland Realm, the son of Thranduil the Elvenking. He was a king-to-be, a warrior born, with the world at his feet. And he had seen a Balrog, battled Uruk-Hai, and now weathered one of the worst sieges of the age. He had never faltered, never let his hands shake as he faced all Middle-Earth had thrown at him. But his hands were shaking now.

He put his palm against the wall to her left, then the other to the wall on her right. She was boxed in, a wild thing trapped. But she wanted nothing more than to retreat into the cage of his arms, and remained still, remained staring. Their breath mingled, hard and fast, and she could not keep her heart from hammering. He heard it plainly, and knew it matched the thrum of his own.

"The fortress is taken. It is over."

Both of them turned to see King Theoden eyeing the shuddering door. His voice sounded like a funeral bell, forlorn and deeply hollow. He slouched terribly, his will utterly shattered. He no longer seemed a king, but an old man in gilded armor, all dressed up to meet his doom.

Quietly, gently, Sakhra pushed on Legolas's arm. The muscle was taut beneath her hand, seemingly made of stone rather than flesh, but he gave way easily. His head bowed, dipping towards her bare shoulder, briefly brushing his skin against hers. It took all she had not to lean into him, and to keep moving on.

Aragorn turned from barricading the door, his face red with exertion and anger. "You said your fortress would never fall while your men defended it!" he shouted back at Theoden, closing the distance between them. Like Sakhra, he had lost all patience for cowardice or despair. "They still defend it. They have _died_ defending it."

Behind him, the door shuddering, and this time, it buckled inwards, straining against the bars and reinforcements.

"So much death," Theoden all but moaned, raising a hand to his temple. Sakhra was seiged by the urge to slap him, but refrained. "What can men do against such reckless hate?"

With a snarl, Aragorn turned from the king, facing his lieutenant, Gamling. "Tell the women and children to make for the mountain pass, and barricade the entrance!"

Gamling nodded, still useful. He signaled to one of the squires, who rushed off, before chancing a glance at Sakhra herself. "My lady, if you wish-," but his voice trailed off as rage flickered in her eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," she replied evenly, before joining the men at the doors, adding her strength to theirs. A table jammed up next to her, lodged between the wood and the flagstones. _Legolas._

Gimli was with them, his breath coming in little puffs. He alone kept his footing when the Uruk slammed against the door again, sending the rest of the them backwards. Sakhra scrambled back into position, barely hearing Aragorn's plan as it came to fruition.

"Ride out with me," he breathed, stepping close to the king, forcing Theoden to look him in the eye. "Ride out and meet them."

Theoden flinched like a man waking from a bad dream. "For death and glory," he said, and there was a bit of old steel in his voice.

Pride swelled in Aragorn's heart, bolstering his own flagging courage. "For Rohan." But in his mind's eye, he saw Minas Tirith, the White Tree, and the throne of Gondor. "For your people."

The door buckled again, its hinges whining like a child. Sakhra gritted her teeth and stepped back from it, knowing there was no more they could do. Soon the door would be like the gate – broken apart. And this time there would be nowhere to run.

It was Gimli who noticed the window, cut high into the wall of the keep. White light filtered through, painting a box on the flagstones. "The sun is rising," he growled, still stubbornly planted against the door.

_First light on the fifth day._ It rang in her head like a trumpet. _Gandalf._

For King Theoden, the sun was an omen, and he thought of one of the banners in his Golden Hall. He did not expect to see it again, but it didn't matter now. His son was dead, his line ended, his mighty fortress broken. Now all they could do was give the singers another mighty song, and he intended to do just that.

"Yes," he growled, deep in his throat. "Yes." Stronger. "Bring the horses! Bring the spears and axes and arrows! Bring all the warriors left. Your king calls!"

A great cheer went up, and there was a scramble of boots on stone as squires and soldiers disappeared into the keep, down to the stables. Soon hooves joined the tattoo of footsteps, their iron shoes kicking up sparks as they stampeded up from the inner stables. Ashere was with them, just behind Aragorn's Brego, and she flew to her mistress without hesitation.

Sakhra didn't have time to watch the others mount up, turning all her focus on Ashere. She rubbed her velvety ears, soothing the horse. In hushed Haradaic, she promised water and oats and rest, if only they survived this morning. Ashere understood, and tossed her head, proud to serve.

"Blood the horses!" Sakhra shouted, though the Rohirrim needed no advice where their steeds were concerned. She wiped a bloody hand across Ashere's nose, holding her steady as she grew accustomed to the scent. It did not take long. Ashere was a warrior too, and she would draw blood of her own soon enough.

Arod nuzzled into Legolas, who made quick work of calming the horse. He was in the saddle in seconds, a Rohirrim sword in hand. Sakhra mounted up beside him, their knees almost touching between the white horse and the black.

"The Horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep!" Theoden roared, climbing into the saddle of his own horse. He had a helmet tucked under one arm, and a sword in the other. "One last time!"

Finally, Gimli abandoned his post at the door, the last to do so. With one parting glance at his friends, he sprinted towards the steps of the keep tower and the famed Horn, eager to do what he could.

Briefly, Sakhra wished for a coat of mail. Her arms were still bare, and riding out into a sea of Uruk-Hai, packed into a cavalry line, was not her chosen style of fighting. She was no knight of Gondor or rider of Rohan, but she would have to do. _This is the end._ With one hand, she patted Ashere's neck, and the other closed around her sword hilt.

Metal sang as swords were drawn, and own blade joined the song.

"Let this be the hour, where we draw swords together," Theoden said, urging his horse to the front of line. He took his place next to Aragorn, creating a kingly shield for the charge.

Another blow rattled the door, splintering the wood. The barricade clattered, falling away, as their last defense cleaved inward. But no one quailed, not even Theoden. The King of Rohan raised his sword, and the steel gleamed with morning light.

"Now for wrath, now for ruin, and the red dawn!" he roared, donning his helmet. As he watched, the door felt completely, slamming against the flagstones, revealing the black horde of Saruman's wrath.

The Horn blew like the winds of a hurricane, strong and deep and unending, an earthquake in her bones. It chased away all thoughts of chainmail and Uruk-Hai, leaving only the Hasharina ready to do battle. Ashere shuddered beneath her, feeling the oncoming tide of battle.

_"Forth Eorlingas!"_

Emboldened by the Horn and the king's battle cry, the charge surged forth. Brego and Theoden's steed, Snowmane, barreled through the door side by side, colliding with the wall of Uruks. But the foul creatures gave way, unable to stand against such noble beasts. Those who were not trampled fell of the causeway entirely, or caught a sword in the neck. The two kings were not alone, followed closely by Legolas, Sakhra, Gamling, and the remaining warriors of the Deep.

Ashere was smaller than the horses of Rohan, unable to carry a man in full steel plate, but she served Sakhra just fine. Her footing was perfect, even over the uneven stone and huddled bodies lining the causeway. She didn't shy away from Sakhra's arcing sword, trusting her mistress with every inch. The sand mare fought alongside the others, kicking and biting when she could. Many an Uruk lost an eye or shattered a skull because of her.

The causeway was easy, built to favor a cavalry charge from inside the deep. But the field loomed below, where most of the great host waited. It was like a black pool of water, ready to swallow them whole. But Sakhra thought none of that, her attention shuttered to only what was before her. The time for fear and worry had passed.

With his Elven nature, Legolas did not have that luxury. He saw, heard, and felt everything without even trying, so his mind still had room for feeling – and fear. The sword in his hand was foreign, a half-dull blade of the Rohirrim. It did its job, of course, but he yearned for his bow or his knives. _They would do you no good now_ , he knew, and kept hacking at the horde. He attacked without mercy, sometimes without even looking. His eyes were fixed in rhythm, sweeping between Aragorn and Sakhra, watching the dark-haired mortals within the crowd of blonde and copper-headed warriors.

Brego hit the solid earth first, a neck ahead of Snowmane. This was a race to him, and he delighted in it. Once he had belonged to Theoden's son, the Prince of Rohan, and as such, he was a worthy mount for even Aragorn, Isildur's Heir. He wheeled and turned, moving with grace and power to knock down as many Uruk's as he good. Those on the ground met Ashere's hooves or Gamling's spear. Those who stayed standing faced Aragorn himself, and that was as good as death.

This could not last forever, Aragorn knew. Fifty riders against five thousand was not a victory.

But a thousand Riders of Rohan, the deadliest horsemen in Middle-Earth? That was another tale entirely.

His raised his sword high, letting it catch the rising sun as it crested the steep hill above. But his eyes were not on the sky. No, Aragorn fixed upon the White Rider silhouetted against the dawn, gleaming like a star fallen to earth. "Gandalf!" he cheered, and the name drew many an eye.

Sakhra felt the great tension inside her unwind, finally letting go of her heart. _Gandalf had come._

Another rode up besides the White Wizard, his armor red and his hair golden. "Eomer!" Theoden shouted, and his soldiers roared in greeting.

"To the King!" echoed down the hillside, and at first, it seemed like Eomer and Gandalf charged alone. But the rumble beneath in the valley was great, quaking beneath the pounding hooves of a thousand war chargers. Eomer's riders were many, their axes and spears flashing as they rolled towards the Uruk-Hai. The black horde tried to form ranks, aiming their spears and halberds at the charging cavalry, but Gandalf's greatest weapon struck before he could. The sun broke over the hillside, bathing the eastward facing Uruks in a beam of blinding light. Like Orcs and goblins, Uruks held no love for sunlight, and even the strongest shut their eyes, lowering their spears.

They were all swept away, hammered by the rescuing tide of riders. Shadowfax was the first, carrying his master through the thickest company of Uruks. Sword and staff felled many as he rode towards King Theoden's sortie, joining the two companies, and smashing the Uruks in between.

The creatures were running before Gandalf reached Aragorn's side, screaming out their retreat from the valley. Overhead, Helm's Horn blew again, one last echo to rouse a thousand pounding hearts.

Sakhra could hardly believe her eyes. The battle was fading away, and her senses returned in a wave that nearly felled her. Her hands quivered, shaking with the memory of the Battle of Helm's Deep. Every blow, every wound, every fallen soldier came back. But above all, one thing repeated in her mind. It was what she asked the gods for, what she prayed for a thousand times. Not once had they ever answered her pleas, not as a child, not as a woman. But now, now they decided to listen.

_We are alive. We have won._


	24. Where I Cannot Follow

Eomer's Rohirrim mopped up the valley of the Deep, moving in practiced circles of riders. Spear and sword killed the Uruks who couldn't run, while the rest fled into the surrounding hills. A strange shadow overtook them, ringing the valley, and for a moment Sakhra, felt a shiver of fear. But then she realized the shadow was not some fell sorcery of Saruman's – it was  _trees._  A forest thick and deep spread across the mouth of the valley, over what had been empty plains just yesterday. Somehow, the forest had  _moved_ , as if Middle-Earth itself had joined the War of the Ring.

" _Zera das_ ," Sakhra murmured in Haradaic, for there were no words in Westron that could explain her awe.

Gandalf reined up next to Sakhra, his white robes flapping in the morning breeze. "Well said, my dear," he said, smiling in her direction. "The forest of Fangorn has risen up against the evil of Saruman."

As they watched the Uruks disappear into the green darkness, the trees began to sway and creak, their boughs rustled by the movement. Screeches and howls rose on the wind, the dying cries of a thousand foul creatures. Each one tugged at Sakhra's lips, until her mouth curled into a smile.

"Even now, the fortress of Isengard is being cleansed of its sorcery," Gandalf continued, fixing his gaze on the horizon, towards the Tower of Orthanc and the fallen wizard. "But you'll see that for yourself soon enough."

With the battle won and the last rush of adrenaline fading away, Sakhra found herself quailing at the prospect of another long ride across the plains of Rohan. Already, the wounds of Helm's Deep had begun to ache. But she would never admit it.

Lucky then, that Gandalf saw the pain in her eyes, and heard the exhaustion in her shallow breaths. "Or perhaps it's better you stay here? The Lady Eowyn will need all the help she can get, leading the people of Rohan back to Edoras."

"So I can take my place with the women and children?" she growled, but there wasn't much bite in her tone.

"So you can heal, Sakhra," he replied, putting one wrinkled hand over her own. "You have won a great battle, you are a  _hero_  of Rohan. Trust me when I say these people will never equate you with helpless or the weak ever again." The wizard leaned forward, his blue eyes crinkling with a familiar smile. "You need not fear them anymore."

To that, she had nothing to say. Gandalf was right, of course. She did fear returning to the keep in bandages, limping, bleeding, wounded enough to prove she didn't belong. But so many had died, elves and Rohirrim both. And though it felt cruel to think so, she had survived where they had not. She had proven herself a warrior – and an ally. A hero, like Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. A free woman of Middle-Earth. That title was worth every name she had ever earned.

"Huorns." Legolas's clear voice sounded from her left, where he had ridden up beside her. He was staring at the forest, reading each tree like the pages of a book. "The oldest of the wood, ancient creatures planted by Yavanna, woken by the Ents of Fangorn. I've never seen so many, and so far from the deepness of their forests."

Now that the battle was over, and the shadow of death had lifted, at least for a little while, Sakhra found it difficult to look his way. She remembered their lingering moments in the Hornburg all too clearly. And while the blue fire in his eyes invigorated her soul, it also frightened her. He was an Elven prince, a lord of a world full of grace and starlight. Her love for him – why lie to herself anymore? – would only end in pain. She had experienced heartbreak before, with Farzane. And she knew the agony of Legolas would be a thousand times worse.

So she knotted her hands in Ashere's mane, feeling the horse shudder beneath her. The sand mare was injured, favoring her right forelimb, just as Sakhra favored her unwounded shoulder. But for the pain, she might've smiled at the thought of the horse mirroring her mistress.

"That's a fancy word for tree," she said, sliding down from the saddle. Her hair, undone by battle, fell like a black and soothing curtain as she bent to examine Ashere's leg. There was a slash of blood above the mare's knee, and Sakhra worked quickly to bind it, ripping apart her own bandages to do so.

Legolas watched her work in silence, his brow furrowed. He did not miss Gandalf's angled glance or raised eyebrow as he stared across Ashere's back. "Legolas," was all he said, nodding in greeting. The wizard smirked when he urged Shadowfax away, to join Theoden and Aragorn at the eaves of the newly made forest.

"Sakhra," Legolas said softly, hoping she would look up. He had not forgotten the keep, or the touch of his forehead on her bare arm. He wanted to see her eyes again, to see what he saw before. And to see what they would become, now that death had passed them by.  _After has come_ , he thought, and the word seemed more beautiful than any star.

But she didn't look up. She couldn't. It would be too painful, more than her shoulder, more than the cuts and bruises and aches. Because now that they were alive, now that death was behind them, she had to face the truth of what he was and what she was not. It was easier to keep her chin tucked, her focus on Ashere, and her mind anywhere but the elven prince.

"She needs to be seen to," she replied, her voice high and clear and forced. "Ashere will not be able to make the ride to Orthanc."

He narrowed his eyes, confused both by her manner and her words. "Orthanc?"

She took Ashere by the reins, turning her away from the so-called Huorns and set a slow pace. Legolas followed without thought, urging Arod to her side. He even dismounted in a single, fluid motion, and walked next to her. Their fingers idled inches from each other, and their skin wanted to touch, even if their minds did not.

"Gandalf will need to attend to Saruman personally," she said, doing her best to keep her hands to herself. "I suppose he'll ride before midday, and Aragorn will go with him."

His eyes darkened, understanding her deeper meaning. After all, this was her way, to pull off from the others as quickly and quietly as possible. She tried to do it in Lothlorien, at Amon Hen, and now again, attempting to split off from Gandalf and the Hunters. "You know you have your choice of horses, Sakhra," he muttered, almost scolding. "You don't have to lie to me."

Her first instinct was to bristle, to angrily tell him that this was about Ashere and nothing else, to  _hide_. It's what she was trained to do. Instead, she let a bit of her mask slip, showing the prince who had seen so much of her glimpse a little bit more.

"I am tired, Legolas," she whispered, in a voice so low only an elf could hear. "I am only human, and I cannot follow you this time."

_Human._  The word cut Legolas deeper than any blade. In the heat of battle, he had never forgotten her mortality – in fact, it was always at the front of his mind – but he could ignore it. They were  _both_  to die, and would not have to face long wasting years of age and, eventually, abandonment. But now that the sun had risen, he saw their predicament more clearly. An elf and a human could share love, but not a life. To try would be the worst kind of heartbreak.

Like Sakhra, he shrank away from the pain. "Very well," he said, and it sounded so terribly final. "Then we'll see you back at Edoras."

He had stopped, letting her walk on alone. The distance made her bold, and she found the strength to meet his eyes once more. "Edoras," she repeated, letting dark brown melt into blue like oil into water.

_After I return,_ he thought.  _Will there never be an end to this after?_

And then she turned her back on Legolas, the forest, and the companions who had brought her so far. When she returned to the keep, she could not look at the bodies strewn across every inch of the gray stone. In the sunlight, the blood gleamed like dark rubies. She kept her eyes on her feet, not wanting to see which faces would never smile again. She threw herself into treating Ashere. It took the better part of the day to make the sand mare comfortable, and by the time Sakhra left the stables, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and even Theoden and Eomer had ridden for Isengard. Part of her wished she had said goodbye, but the rest was glad she was spared that parting. As the sun dipped low over the valley of Helm's Deep, she found the room the Hunters had shared and tried to sleep. But through her tears, sleep would not come.

* * *

The march back to Edoras was slower even than the first march to Helm's Deep. So many wounded to be tended to, and the majority of Eomer's eored bore litters of injured soldiers. Eowyn led the bedraggled line of victors, though they looked more like refugees to Sakhra's eye. But she held her tongue, saying little, thinking even less. She kept to herself and while the people of Rohan avoided her, they no longer hated her. They looked on the Hasharina with awe or respect, having heard tales of her deeds in the Deep. The days blended, marked only by the wounds healing across her body. By the time Edoras was in sight, Ashere could gallop again, if not at her full speed. There would be no races yet, but the sand mare  _would_ race again one day.

As for her mistress, Sakhra was not sure. Her wounds were deeper than the flesh. While Eowyn boldly took up her uncle's throne, seeing to the care of the wounded and any other royal duty that came her way, Sakhra shrank from court. If she was not standing in the shadows, idly watching Eowyn prepare a great feast for the king's return, she was on the plains surrounding the walled city. Ashere was with her, content to explore the gentle golden hills while the Hasharina's mind was elsewhere. The sand mare did not judge, but snorted occasionally, and pulled at her reins to remind Sakhra that she was not entirely alone.

It was here that Sakhra found a bit of peace. The blue horizon calmed something in her, a restlessness that had been present all her life.  _No, not all._  It was put into her by the guild, where she was made into the dangerous, bold thing she was now. Someone who would never be still, who would never find a home. Who could never be at peace. But bits of that were beginning to fade. Something, if not someone, had taught Sakhra what it was to grow roots.

The day was cold but clear when Gandalf returned, leading a war party of kings and heroes. Sakhra saw them from the rise above, herself a black shadow sitting alone upon a golden hill. She was quietly glad of her appearance, having traded her bloodied and torn leathers for fine wool and her elven cloak. Her hair was wild from the ride, held back only by a strip of leather, but she knew she looked better than she had in days. The circles had disappeared from her eyes, and her cheeks were no longer hollow. So soon after certain death, life flooded back.

Ashere whinnied at the sight and scent of Shadowfax, her companion, betraying her mistress. Sakhra would've liked to return to Edoras alone, to use these last moments to gather herself. But Ashere whinnied again and pulled at her reins, begging to race. From so far away, only Legolas saw Sakhra hesitate. And while he was more than glad to see her, he understood her reluctance. The week away had taught him many things, most of all how big a hole such a small woman could create.

Ashere could not be denied. With the slightest touch, Sakhra led the sand mare into a gallop. The horse exploded across the plains, as if she had never been wounded, crossing the distance with great and striking speed. Even the horse lords, attuned to the greatest steeds, looked on the black mare with a mix of envy and curiousity. Next to the steeds of Rohan, great chargers bred to carry men in full armor at great speed, Ashere looked like living smoke. Angled and beautiful and mysterious as her rider.

It seemed Theoden had forgotten – or forgiven – Sakhra's harsh words to him at the Battle of Helm's Deep. He even smiled over his shoulder, inclining his head in her direction. "Well met, Lady Sakhra," he called, his voice hearty and strong. The last remnants of Saruman, as well the sorrow of the Deep, had finally fallen away.

It was the king who slowed his horse first, allowing Sakhra to circle around the riders. "Well met, my lords!" she called back, letting Ashere fall in next to Aragorn and Brego. Before she could reach out to embrace any of her friends, another friendly face popped out, having blended into Aragorn's dark leathers.

"Merry!" she exclaimed, almost falling out of her saddle at the sight of him.

The little hobbit smiled, reaching out, and she took his arm gladly. All thoughts of Legolas, of what was to come, quickly faded away. For a moment, she thought her heart might burst of happiness.

"And what about me?" a familiar voice said.

She grinned wider than she thought possible, shifting in the saddle. "Of course Pippin is not far away."

He grinned at her from around the folds of Gandalf's snow-white cloak. "Careful, Sakhra, you're starting to look like a proper lady," he joked, nodding at her clean clothing.

"Sakhra?" Merry laughed. "Never."

She ruffled his hair, pretending to be cross. The longer the joke lasted, the longer she didn't have to face the elven prince riding just behind her. "I see the tree men didn't teach you any manners."

"Hobbits?" Legolas said, his voice soft but strong enough to carry. Sakhra could not help but snap in her seat, turning to face him too quickly for her own liking. "Never."

Their eyes met, but the moment was fleeting as summer rain. Legolas was good enough to nod at her, but did no more. Like Sakhra, he had learned much during their separation, most of all what she meant to him – and the danger that presented to them both. So for now, he would keep his distance, hard as it might be.

"Look at this one, growing a sense of humor while I wasn't looking," Gimli crowed, jabbing a gloved thumb in the elf's direction. "You've been spending too much time with us ruffians, Princeling." The remnants of the Fellowship shared a rumble of laughter at that.

"So this is the Maiden of Helm's Deep?" Eomer boomed, leaning forward in his saddle so he could see Sakhra better. He looked as wild and strong as she remembered from their meeting on the plains, but this time his armor was free of Uruk blood. He was an exile no longer, taken back into the king's favor. According to Eowyn, her brother was now heir to Theoden's kingdom, and pride rolled off him in palpable waves.

She nodded stiffly at the warrior prince of Rohan. When last they met, he had accused her of being a spy, and she had not forgotten. But now he smiled at her, his look curious, if not impressed.  _I am no maiden_ , she wanted to reply, but held her tongue. "Is that what they call me, Prince Eomer?"

"Not this lot," he chuckled in reply, gesturing to Aragorn. "I was hard-pressed to get any information about you from them, but the rest of the men were more forthcoming."

Aragorn flushed, as if he had something to be ashamed of. "Your virtues were simply too many to tell, Sakhra," he explained. She had to laugh at his expression, and patted him firmly on the arm.

"You both flatter me," she said, though she quirked an eyebrow at Aragorn.  _What is he playing at?_ It was not like the ranger to be so flustered. "And hopefully later, I can return the favor. Eowyn has prepared a great feast, to celebrate King Theoden's victory at Helm's Deep."

Her manner was courtly, and it struck the Hunters. They did not know this version of Sakhra, the one who could weave her way through high lords and ladies with shocking ease. Now she wielded words as she would a double-edged blade.  _King Theoden's victory._  Even Gimli knew better than to believe that. The victory was Aragorn's and Gandalf's and all those who had stood where the King of Rohan had stumbled. But Theoden read none of that in Sakhra's words. Instead, he smiled and laughed, patting his horse's neck with a grand smile.

"We will honor the living and the dead." Something flickered in his eyes, but the grin remained. "With feast and song and splendor, as such brave soldiers deserve."

Eomer clapped a fist to his chest, and a resounding thump echoed against his red leather armor. His brow furrowed at the thought of so many lost, but he did not speak of it. He had only just been accepted back into his uncle's confidence, and did not wish to be pushed out again. His grim resolve could wait.

As they passed beneath the gates of Edoras, all were silent and stewing. While the city cheered, waving to their golden, beaming king and prince, the Hunters stared at their hands. Aragorn thought of Gondor, of the retribution that would surely fall like a hammer upon the White City. Gimli's mind strayed to the battles still to come, to his mountain home, where his kin would surely be besieged. Gandalf's own musings surrounded the Palantir wrapped in his cloak, and the dim red heat that pulsed within. He was tempted to look, just as he had been tempted by the Ring. But both had corrupted Saruman, his old friend, and the West could not afford another fallen wizard.

In his head, Legolas was counting. Two hundred Elven warriors had journeyed to Helm's Deep, and near that now lay dead. Theoden had personally assured the prince that they would not be left to feed the crows, but that was no comfort at all. Two hundred fallen, and more would follow. When the storm finally broke across Middle-Earth, it would take the might of all the Elven kingdoms, of Thranduil and Galadriel and Elrond, to hold back such monstrous shadows. He did not know if it would be enough.  _I have seen all the Enemy can offer, and I tell you truly, I think you will lose._ Sakhra said that once, a lifetime ago. What he would give to return to that moment, knowing what he did now. Boromir would live, the Fellowship would not have splintered, and Legolas would have swallowed every harsh word he ever threw as the Hasharina.  _No_ , he thought.  _I would have kept my distance. For both our sakes._

But that mistake was already made. That path was already followed, and now there was no escape from it. She closed in around him like bars of a cage, and Legolas found himself wanting to be trapped.

Meanwhile, the hobbits muttered of the feast, and debated how many courses and mugs of ale they could consume before night's end.

* * *

Meduseld was a hall of organized chaos. Laundresses, squires, cooks, kennel masters, cleaners, maids, brewers, and musicians wandered about in an army of chores, commanded by their lord and master, Eowyn. She paced the dais, watching as the Golden Hall transformed before her eyes. What was once dark and dank had become a place of warm light. The high windows were opened to catch the fresh air, trestle tables were brought out, the floors cleaned, every surface polished to jewel-bright perfection, and new banners were raised along the walls. The white stallion of Rohan galloped at every corner, and it made her smile like nothing else. This was her house renewed, a little bit of the glory of old reclaimed. Her uncle was returning a grand hero, as was her brother. And of course, Lord Aragorn had survived. She feared for him almost as much as her blood kin, and that fear made her bold. War was upon them. She had no more time to keep silent.

Her joy was only tempered by the deep hooks of regret still buried in her stomach. While her family had fought for the Deep, making themselves worthy of mighty song, she had cowered in the Glittering Caves. Her deeds were nothing more than comforting old women and children. She had only listened to the drums of the Uruk-Hai. She was useless.  _Not like the Hasharina,_  she thought with a twist of jealousy.  _She stood the Wall with the others, and fought through the night._

But it was wrong to envy Sakhra, who had earned her place. Aragorn vouched for her, not to mention the elf and the dwarf and of course, the wizard Gandalf. Eowyn had no such champions.  _Yet._

When the doors to the hall opened, revealing her royal uncle and his great company, she thought her face had split in two. It was the most she had smiled in years, and she came down quickly, passing the massive hearth fire with quick, measured steps.

"My lords, and lady," she said, sweeping into a well-practiced curtsy. Theoden was quick to raise her and kiss her on both cheeks, praising his niece for her handiwork. But Eowyn barely heard him. Her thoughts were with another, a ranger with a stern air and eyes as gray as mist.

Eowyn was of royal blood, a daughter of a honorable house, and had no talent for masking her emotions. Sakhra could've read her expression with both eyes closed, and made sure to keep herself guarded. Pursing her lips at a Rohirrim princess was not a good way to spend the king's favor. Instead, she nudged Aragorn as sharply as she could without drawing attention. He was wise enough to remain still, though he glanced at her sidelong. Her stern expression was enough to take him off guard, but he understood.

_She is returning the favor,_ he thought, remembering how he had chided both she and Legolas so many days ago in Lothlorien.  _But that is different. Eowyn is not one of the Eldar, and Arwen has departed this world._

"I'll take it into consideration, Mother," he grumbled back at Sakhra, earning a firmer glare which he plainly ignored.

Sakhra was born a slave, and it made her keenly aware and sensitive to injustice.  _Hypocrite_ , she snarled in her head.  _He will lead her on, and think it a mercy._  Then her thoughts dissolved into Haradaic, into curses old and new. A small bit of her was happy for the distraction, to worry over Aragorn's love life instead of her own. And it drove away the thoughts of war that had begun to creep back. Helm's Deep was only the beginning, and she did not want to dwell on what would be the ending.

"Come, hobbits, you must be starving after your long ride," she said, turning her attentions on the two creatures who could always make her laugh.

Pippin raised a finger, and his mouth moved faster than his mind. "Actually, we ate on the way. Constantly. Got crumbs all down my front and in Shadowfax's mane, Gandalf was quite cross –"

Merry's elbow collided with his arm, silencing him. "Starving, just starving," he said loudly, hoping to mask his cousin's jabbering. "Nothing whatsoever in Isengard, just Entish food."

"Well then, Master Hobbits, we shall have to find you something to tide you over until the feasting can begin. Come along." She extended a hand to them both, and gladly led them away from the mess of a hall. Gimli was quick to follow, grumbling that the hobbits ate like kings at Saruman's table, and Legolas shadowed them all. Though Aragorn wished to trail along, to escape Eowyn's constant gaze and Theoden's basking, he kept himself rooted. Gandalf had need of him, and that was enough.

Unfortunately, the kitchens were just as tumultuous as the Golden Hall, perhaps more so, and the hobbits were an added nuisance. Always underfoot, pinching scraps from every oven and skillet they could get their quick hands into. Gimli was more tactful, flattering kitchen maids into feeding him from the banquet plates. The cooks tried to swat the hobbits off, but fell silent as the sight of their Hasharina guardian, and the elf lingering in the doorway. They offered food to each, but both waved them off. If the cooks were not so busy, they would've noticed the woman and the elf looked everywhere but each other, and were careful to keep their distance. Gimli began to think of it, but was quickly distracted by a roasted boar.

Sometime later, when Sakhra decided the hobbits were full enough, she pulled them gently from the kitchens. "A bedchamber has been set aside for you all," she said when they reached the corridor connecting the private rooms to the great hall. Sakhra was careful to keep her tone light, and keep ignoring Legolas. "I don't know how comfortable you'll be, with so many guests for the feasts, but I won't hear any complaints."

"We've been sleeping on a moving  _tree_  for the past few weeks, I think we'll manage," Merry said, elbowing Sakhra's hip.

"And while you rascals were sleeping, we were  _running_ ," Gimli crowed. "All over Middle-Earth, through snow and rain and mud six feet deep –"

Sakhra's high laughter cut him off. It shook her from shoulders to toes, alive in every bone. It was good to hear.

"What about you, Sakhra?" Pippin prodded, taking her hand again.

"I'll be with some of the noblewomen," she replied, trying her best not to pull a face. Only her Hasharin training helped her succeed. "Wouldn't want to upset the delicate customs of Meduseld."

Pippin waved a small hand, scoffing. "If you get lonely, you'll know where to find me."

This time, the corridor rumbled with their laughter, from Gimli's low booms to Legolas's quiet, melodic mirth. The maids in the hall stopped to watch, marveling at such a strange company. Not a normal one among them, all heroes, all legends, and all beneath their very own roof. Many a lady's eye followed Legolas, though he only had eyes for the woman who refused to look at him.

When they reached the chambers set aside for the warriors, Sakhra idled, trying not to bid them farewell for now. She could not bear to see them go, if only for a little while.  _You survived a week without them, what's a few hours more_ , she scolded herself. She would see them all later, and celebrate all they had done to earn this reunion. It would be a night of happiness, without worry, without the weight of war and all things that came with it. She would speak with Legolas as a friend, and stop all this avoiding nonsense.  _You were a Hasharina_ , she told herself.  _You can break the spell of one flouncing elf prince._

Then his hand brushed hers, a fleeting, electric touch. And she knew all her thoughts were lies, and all her plans were ash.


	25. So We May Live

Eowyn was waiting at her door, a parcel of gold silk in hand. Strange, to see the lady of Rohan waiting on a fallen Hasharina. But Sakhra held her tongue, and inclined her head as she approached. "My lady," she said, as custom dictated. But Eowyn waved a white hand, dismissing all courtesy.

"I'm sorry for what I said in Helm's Deep." Her blue eyes were dark, shaded by regret and shame. "It was so foolish."

_Forgive me_  hung in the air, fleeting as vapor. Despite all the things Sakhra had heard and seen, she was still taken aback by the apology of a Western princess, and found herself floundering for the right thing to say. "I've learned that words said and deeds done on the eve of battle are not to be taken seriously," she finally replied, crossing her arms behind her back. "You have no need to apologize to me, my lady."

"All the same, I give it. And if you'll accept this," Eowyn continued, holding out the parcel. "I suppose you don't have any dresses suitable for a feast?"

Sakhra's eyes flickered, taking in the thick silk and rich embroidery. A princely gift, to be certain. And it had been a very long time since Sakhra had worn a dress, and felt silk upon her skin. Her cheeks flushed at the memory, and though she knew she should at least pretend to refuse, her hands extended to receive Eowyn's present. "My lady," she said again, and Eowyn laughed quietly. "It seems you've found my weakness."

Eowyn laughed, louder this time, without a hint of mockery. This time it rang through the halls. "Funny, the men say the Maiden of Helm's Deep has none." Then she drew close, her smile still wide, her eyes dancing. A bit of cheer had stolen into Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, and it had everything to do with the survival of a grey-eyed ranger. Her voice lowered, and she whispered in Sakhra's ear. "But for an elf prince, of course."

It was meant to be a joke, a playful secret between friends, and Sakhra kept her fixed smile for Eowyn's sake. Meanwhile her heart hammered in her chest, beating a violent tattoo against her ribcage. If  _Eowyn_  of all people knew there was, well, something, between Sakhra and Legolas, how long until it was shouted down the banks of the Anduin? How long until Aragorn pulled them aside, or Gandalf, for  _Kerak_ 's sake? Her flush bloomed darker at the thought. Eowyn took the Hasharina's response for the usual womanly bashfulness, and put her arm in Sakhra's, pulling her into the bedchamber. Though Sakhra knew Eowyn meant well, it took all she had not to slip out of her grasp and steal away.  _This can wait_ , she thought.  _I'll talk to after the feast, and put an end to this matter before it can begin. We must. We must. After. After._

"You shall have whatever you need, Lady Sakhra," Eowyn pressed on, accompanying her into the wide chamber Sakhra shared with several other ladies of court. Usually everyone had their own bed, but now the room bustled with twice as many women as usual. Maids fluttered about, mending stitches and braiding hair, making their mistresses as beautiful as possible. War still loomed like a dark cloud, and who knew how long it would be until another celebration came to the Golden Hall? The excitement was palpable amongst many of the women, who exchanged pleasantries as they selected gowns and ribbons. All were fair-headed Rohirrim, blonde or red-haired, and the dark woman of Harad stood out plainly.

At the sight of Lady Eowyn, arm in arm with the Maiden of Helm's Deep, the room stilled, and every head bowed. The maids curtsied low, eyes wide in reverence and curiosity. Though Sakhra had lived at Meduseld for several days now, they were still enamored of her. And now that more of the great warriors had returned, there were more stories to be had of the strange Hasharina. Some of the soldiers said she was an angel, others a demon, but all agreed on one thing especially. This woman was blood, death, and victory. She had sacrificed as much as any other, and was worthy of great renown. This tempered Sakhra's unease a little, for she saw it in every eye. She had earned a place of honor in Rohan, befitting of any hero. No man here would ever call her a whore again, or spit at the hooves of her horse. This kingdom would welcome her with open arms.

"My lady." One of the maids stepped forward, curtysing again. She had hair so blonde it was almost white, plaited into a long swinging braid. She wore wool like the other servants, but her soft hands betrayed her as a lady's maid. Eowyn's own, Sakhra suspected.  _Another gift._  "I can fix your hair, if you like."

Too many times Sakhra had dressed in the desert, donning gowns that would make the maids blush, braiding her hair into intricate patterns set with jewels and gold. She was well-versed in the art of getting ready, at least, in Harad and Gondor. Not once had she been sent to the high court of Rohan, and so not once had she been made to learn firsthand what those women should be like. So instead of turning aside the maid, she nodded in acquiesce. Now that she saw the others, the women with long, gleaming hair and faces clear of dark eye paint, she knew firsthand. This was new territory, and it was best to let another guide her.  _Why do I care about looking proper?_ she asked herself, though part of her knew the answer. Strange nerves fluttered in her belly, and they danced at the thought of the feast.

"Very well," she said, and let the maid lead her away. Eowyn did not tarry long, having much more to do, and bid Sakhra a quiet goodbye. The Hasharina suspected she was off the supervise the rest of the feast, and perhaps speak with Lord Aragorn if fate permitted. That last thought rankled, but there was nothing she could do about it. This was Aragorn's business, and she should not get in the middle of it.

"Just here, my lady," the maid said, gesturing to a stool set before a polished looking glass. One of the only ones in the room, plainly reserved for the Hasharina.  _No, the Maiden of Helm's Deep._

Sakhra expected to hear whispered jibes, especially from a room teeming with women, but none came. The other women were nobles, the wives of generals or diplomats or high lords, some talking cheerfully, but others were quiet. They were the widows and the ones left behind, having lost their husbands or fathers or brothers or sons at Helm's Deep. Sakhra kept her eyes lowered, unable to look at them. How could she? She had survived where their men had not. So she bit her lip and sat back, letting another fuss over her hair and dress so she didn't have to.

The minutes passed, and Sakhra watched her reflection change.

* * *

Legolas was not a stranger to feasts or parties. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But most would think him a child, nervous before his first banquet, if they could see the elf pacing one of the terraces of Meduseld, his back to the setting sun. He had shed his woodland green overcoat, revealing a silk tunic the color of an early moon. It glowed gold in the red haze of sunset, illuminating the intricate Elvish embroidery in swirling lines of pure fire. Beneath the green light of his forest home, the silks would flicker like water reflecting starlight, but here in a land of horse and hearth, it took on a more rustic appearance. All the better, for Legolas knew he would stand out in a crowd of Rohirrim.  _At least I am not Gimli_ , he allowed. Indeed, the dwarf was often waylaid by children hanging off his arms, begging for tales of battle and glory. Gimli was glad to appease them, but Legolas did not share his enthusiasm. When the children did find the elf, following him from a respectable distance until one summoned the courage to question a prince, his responses were quiet and slow, too sad for most to stomach. He did not revel in magnificent endings and saw every death, even the grand ones, as a tragedy. Such tales did not interest children, and they soon learned to avoid the melancholic Prince of Mirkwood.

The women of court were harder to dodge. In the days before Helm's Deep and the few hours since his return from Isengard, young girls, maids, and noblewomen alike crossed his path as much as they could. Many were quite plain, pretending to have taken a wrong turn or faking a stumble so he would catch their arm. All were a nuisance, but Legolas was polite as he could be, albeit a bit frosty. Most of the women whispered that the prince, while fair and strong, was carved from a block of ice. His flawless hearing caught all this as if the words were shouted across the room, and he could not help but laugh.  _Let them think me cold._  All the better for it, so he could focus on chilling his heart to the one woman who insisted on setting it ablaze.

Once again, Sakhra crossed his thoughts, if not his path.  _After_ , he had promised himself. He would speak to her after the Battle of Helm's Deep, after returning from Orthanc, after the feast, after the Ring was destroyed, after the stars fell from the heavens to dance upon the earth.  _After is not coming. There will always be another wall, another step, another reason to keep silent._ He cursed to himself in Elvish, just as the sun slid below the horizon, like it was running from such harsh words in such a beautiful language. It was not like Legolas to become so entangled, but this was strange territory. This was a battle he did not understand, that could not be won with bow and blade. He did not even know what winning  _meant._  Was it speaking his feelings to her, a pledge of love -  _what else can this be?_  - or, to his own dismay, putting aside his feelings entirely? Was this fight a battle against his own heart? Would he have to give up that in the end, to secure victory against the darkness that threatened them all? For her, he would sacrifice everything he could...but could he sacrifice her for everything else? _  
_

Another curse, and another harried walk up and down the terrace. He felt bare without his bow, and yearned to shoot something. If only Gimli was here to talk nonsense, and distract Legolas from his fevered mind. Instead, Aragorn found him, and he looked sterner than ever. Though Legolas was several thousand years his elder, he could not help feeling like a child about to be scolded.

But instead of chiding his friend for being torn apart by feeling, Aragorn heaved a sigh of understanding. He plucked at his tunic, the same redspun he wore under his leathers, but it had been freshly laundered at Eowyn's behest. The scent of rosewater clung to the fabric, and he liked it very little. "These women," he muttered, crossing his arms.

Legolas all but fell over in relief. "These women," he repeated, quirking a smile the ladies of court would faint to see. "Is there any defense at all?"

"Against them?" Aragorn chuckled, betraying the heart Legolas knew beat beneath his breast. But the smile died quickly, and Aragorn's eyes turned faraway. His thoughts shifted from the Lady of Rohan, to the maiden who had defeated him long ago, and never relinquished her victory. "None," he said, and it was hollow. "They always win."

This time, Legolas knew what that victory meant, and what such a battle won.  _My heart._ _And that has been lost to her, since before I even knew it was gone._

"I pitied you once," the elf murmured. He could not look at Aragorn as he spoke such hateful words. "When I first heard of your pledge to Arwen. Elrond was furious, and it took my father no time at all to find out why. He told me soon after, and while he laughed at Elrond's misfortune, I thought of yours. In love with an elf, doomed to leave her. I suppose this is the punishment for such musings."

Aragorn took the admittance for what it was. This was not Legolas asking for his blessing. He would never be so bold, nor so reliant on Aragorn's judgement, not for this. He doubted the prince would listen to any on the subject, even his father, if pressed to.  _This is only the lifting of a weight_ , Aragorn knew.  _He cares not for my opinion. He is beyond listening to my commands, at least where she is concerned._ So instead of wasting his breath to warn his friend of his own danger, Aragorn came forward and clasped his arm. "I think your punishment has yet to come, my friend," he said, with a glimmer of mischief in his eye.

Legolas raised an eyebrow in question, wondering what the ranger was getting at.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to be present when you tell the Elvenking his son and heir has fallen in love with a Haradrim assassin."

* * *

Merry and Pippin had been shooed from the kitchen a third time when Gandalf came to collect them. He shook his head at them both, pretending to be cross, but it was difficult, even for the wizard, during such celebrations. Already the great hall was teeming with noise and laughter, and it grew with every passing moment. The hobbits all but wrenched his arms off as they pulled Gandalf along, chattering about feasting and dancing and singing.

"We'll show these horse lords how to top a table, don't you worry, Pip," Merry said, grinning at his cousin. "You remember The Green Dragon, yes?"

Pippin looked almost offended. "I'm thick, but I'm not that thick. 'Course I remember!"

"If we escape this night without the two of you causing mischief, I'll count myself luckiest of all who walk this earth," Gandalf muttered under his breath, though his eyes twinkled with his usual laughter. Tonight was a time to forget the obstacles that lay ahead, and celebrate their great victory of Helm's Deep. If only for tonight, Gandalf the White would smile, and not dwell on dark things.  _I hope_. For something twinged at his mind, a shadow pulling in the corners of his head.  _The Palantir_ , he thought. But that was safe back in his chamber. No one would disturb the deadly Seeing Stone tonight. No, this was something else, something he could not place. Another danger, and one he could not fathom yet.

He dismissed the thought as they entered the great hall, greeted by a cheer from the gathered Rohirrim. Gandalf was one, if not the greatest of the heroes of Helm's Deep, and everyone knew his cavalry charge snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Gandalf was not one to turn away from praise, but even this put a flush in his cheeks, and he had to bow his head.

The hobbits were off like arrows from the bow, having sighted a barrel of ale being carried across the hall. "Behave yourselves!" Gandalf shouted after them, but they paid him no heed, and disappeared into the crowd.  _All the better. Let someone else nanny them_.

"10,000 Uruk-Hai were easier to control than those two," Aragorn chuckled, moving to Gandalf's side. The wizard nodded in agreement, and drew out his pipe with a flick. He lit it with a wink, and took a thoughtful puff. "They can't get into much trouble tonight. At least, no more than anyone else," Aragorn added, eyeing another barrel of ale as a servant rolled it across the floor. "Do they mean for us to go swimming?"

"They mean for everyone to be merry tonight and sick tomorrow," Gandalf replied, blowing a perfect ring of smoke. "This is Rohan, and such is their right. As it is yours, Aragorn." He put a hand on the ranger's shoulder, and the touch was soothing. "Put away your cares for a time. For an old man's sake."

"Very well." But like Gandalf, something twisted at the back of his mind, a sensation he couldn't place. Aragorn attributed it to Legolas, and his declaration.  _That will end poorly, for us all._  "Certainly you know what bothers me, Gandalf?"

Another ring of smoke. "Would it be the Ring of Power in the hands of a hobbit? The Dark Lord returning to conquer these lands? Perhaps it is Arwen, sailing to the Undying Lands, who plagues you so?" Gandalf muttered, ticking each one off on a hand. "Or is it the small, harmless romance between two able friends that has you in such knots, Aragorn, son of Arathorn? Could that be it?"

Aragorn was not in the mood to be scolded, not by Gandalf of all people. "Harmless? Certainly you don't think-"

"What I think, and what  _you_  think, do not  _matter._  It's their business, and that's that."

"Since when does Gandalf the Gray mind his own business?" Aragorn said with a slanting smile. For that, he received a plume of smoke in the face.

"Since I became Gandalf the White, you impudent whelp."

Their laughter rose above the noise of the crowd. No mean feat, now that the hall was nearly bursting with the men and women of Edoras. King Theoden and his retainers, as well as Eomer and Eowyn, were still nowhere to be found, as was the elven prince. Aragorn suspected he was lurking somewhere, perhaps even waiting at Sakhra's door to escort her. After his confession on the terrace, who knows where else his boldness might lead? But Sakhra entered the hall unaccompanied, following the drove of noblewomen who she had prepared herself with. They smiled at her, nudging her along, sensing the uneasiness the Hasharina tried so hard to hide. "You look lovely," one murmured, her blue eyes lingering on Sakhra's dark coloring. In the torchlight, her brown skin gleamed like beaten bronze, and her pendant, the elfstone Morianar, glowed with warmth.

It was the stone that caught Aragorn's eye first, and then Sakhra's oil-black hair. It was done up in the Rohirrim style, with hair braided away from her temples, while the rest hung in glinting sheets combed thick and straight. She cut a striking figure against the fair-skinned crowd, and was difficult to miss in her gold dress. It matched the chain of the Morianar, and while she felt lost in the long sleeves and heavy skirts, Sakhra suited the gown. Embroidered with black thread at the cuffs, hem, and dipping neckline, the dress, while Rohirrim in style, was as close to Haradaic in color as she would find. Eowyn had chosen well, making sure the Maiden of Helm's Deep would live up to her name.

Sakhra felt Aragorn's gaze, and quickly moved to his side. The skirts were unfamiliar, too heavy, not like the thin silk of Harad, but she still moved with a fluid grace. She only hoped the knife tucked into her stocking or the one up her sleeve would not catch. "Saruman should've waited for a feast to attack," she said, eyeing the barrels of ale. "He would have found a snoring Edoras, with only drunks to guard her."

"My lady," Merry said, his eyes wide as he took in her appearance. Like the others, he had never seen her in a gown, not even in Rivendell. He ducked into a poor bow and, after recovering his wits, Merry did the same. The young hobbit opened his mouth to speak, but only a strangled noise came out. Sakhra could not help but laugh, and patted them both on their curly heads.

"You flatter me, young hobbits," she said. "And remind me never to take you two to Harad."

Gandalf and Aragorn smirked at that, knowing exactly what she meant. The court dress of Harad was nowhere near as modest as it was in Rohan, and would certainly leave the hobbits dragging their jaws. "I see Eowyn left you to your own devices," Sakhra continued, eyeing Gandalf's typical white and Aragorn's familiar tunic.

"Are you jealous?" Aragorn said, grinning.

She shrugged. "Hardly. But I am glad she made you bathe. Speaking of, I hope Gimli hasn't drowned in the bathhouses."

"If we didn't, he won't," Pippin chirped, having regained his voice. "Ah, there he is now. And Legolas too."

The others turned, bearing smiles, but Sakhra found she couldn't.  _Not yet,_ she thought.  _Give me one more moment to collect myself_. But time for that was gone, and she could only heave a calming breath before moving to face him. To her surprise, her eyes fell on Gimli first. The dwarf already had a tankard of ale in hand, and was cutting through the crowd like a ship through waves. He chortled and patted men on the back, his cheeks red with amusement and drink. And behind him, trailing like a dutiful father, was the Prince of Mirkwood. He looked more elvish than ever, due in large part to the contrast between himself and the hardy Rohirrim. Like Sakhra, he stuck out like a very beautiful thumb.

It took a great deal of restraint to keep from staring. She drew him like a flower to the sun, a moth to flame. Torchlight rippled across the gold silk of her dress, and she seemed to dance though her body was still. Despite his elven sense, Legolas felt his vision narrow, until he saw nothing but her. For a brief, foolish moment, he wanted it to last, but he blinked away the thought and his head cleared. Aragorn's stern gaze, hidden behind a kind smile, dogged him as he approached.  _Let him fume. Let him worry. I care not._ But, like most things Legolas told himself lately, that was also a lie.  _  
_

Gimli reached her first, taking her roughly by the hand. "Look at the beautiful lass, hiding beneath leather and a bad temper all this time." He stood on tiptoe, and Sakhra stooped to meet him, letting the dwarf's scratchy beard rub her cheek as he kissed her in friendship. "Later I shall burn that veil of yours, so you might never be hidden again."

"You can try, Master Gimli." she replied, hoping to match his cheerful demeanor. Her only hope now was her mask, to seem happy and unaffected by the elf standing much too close. Already she worried what Eowyn - or anyone else - would say about their behavior this night. Her instincts concerning true emotion and feeling were poor, if not forgotten all together, and she fought the urge to ignore him. That would be just as damning as fawning over him. So instead, she forced herself to look at Legolas, and fix him with the same smile she gave Gimli. The one reserved for friends, and friends only. It shivered him. "I've heard you have quite the following here at Edoras," she said, hating the words the second they left her lips. "And you as well," she forced out, turning back on Aragorn. "The last hour with the ladies has taught me many things."

Aragorn pursed his lips, knowing where she meant to drag him.  _If she thinks she can lecture me while carrying on as she does...I will not allow it._  Legolas, on the other hand, was glad for the topic, if only it meant speaking to her. And if it made Aragorn uncomfortable, all the better. "Pray tell, what do they say?"

Her smile froze on her face, and suddenly it was her turn to be silent.  _They say you are the most handsome thing they've ever seen, made of a girl's wishes and dreams. They say you are cold to them, unfeeling, a living statue. They say you seem distracted, probably by the war. But I know better. I know it's because of me._ All this went unsaid, for a hush fell over the crowd, as King Theoden entered the hall. The others turned to watch his procession, but Sakhra and Legolas moved slower than the rest, as if through water. They were reluctant to break their gaze and for a moment, found another fragile shard of time when they were the only two things in existence. But as they did at Helm's Deep, they eventually pulled away, and returned to the world that needed them, leaving what they truly wanted in some forgotten corner.

Eowyn and Eomer followed their uncle, both dressed in finest velvets and silks, though her dress was pale green and his doublet a deep, rich red. But there was no denying their blood and the bond they shared. When Theoden raised a goblet to the gathered crowd, his eyes sharp as flint, they mirrored his motions with grim determination. They were royal now, the heirs of Rohan, and it was already a heavy burden. Sakhra felt a cup be pressed into her hand, and she raised it with the rest, ready to drink and, for a while, forget herself.

"Tonight, we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country," Theoden said. He looked out on the hall with great fervor, and seemed to meet every eye staring back at him. Even Sakhra felt his gaze, though the king had no reason to look her way. She was not his subject, and she lost no one to the bowels of Helm's Deep.  _That's not true_ , she thought dimly.  _Haldir fell defending the Wall. Already you forget him._ She swallowed hard, feeling a shamed flush.  _After_ , she told herself, as she did with so many things.  _I will think on him after._ _  
_

"Hail the victorious dead!" Theoden continued, and tipped the cup. The crowd responded in kind. "Hail!" they shouted, and Sakhra shouted with them. As one, they drank from their cups, tasting not golden ale, but a deep wine that tasted bitter with memory and grief. A fitting drink. Sakhra hoped she would not have to suffer it again.

But the sadness ended with the king, whose smiled returned when he drained his cup. "Many have died," he said over the rustle of the now eager crowd. "So that we may live. Let us honor that, and honor it well." A great cheer followed, and he gestured to the servants by the barrels of ale. Soon, tankards overflowed, and a raucous, merry band began to play. The dark cloud of Helm's Deep still lingered, but it was far away.

Merry and Pippin were the first to take to dance floor, and a good many children followed, eager to take a turn about with two strange hobbits. They peered at their hairy, bare feet, and a few kicked off their own shoes, only to be scolded by their mothers and nurses. Gimli was more adult in his pursuits, and led the rest of the Hunters to a table lined with filled tankards. He smacked his lips and pounded a fist on the table, grinning like a cat in cream.

"Master Dwarf, have you need of something?" Eomer said, appearing from behind a cask of ale. His eyes twinkled as he looked down on Gimli, both amused and impressed with Hammerhand's Axe, as the dwarf was being called.

"Aye, I need someone to keep count," Gimli replied, and pushed a tankard into Legolas's pale hand. The elf balked, confused, but did not protest.

Behind the table, Eomer roared with laughter, slapping a hand to his knee. Like the younger men of the hall, he was ready for a feast to sing songs of, and ale had already loosened his stern facade. "Oh, I certainly shall, if this is the competition."

Realization dawned on Sakhra as she glanced between Legolas and the tankard, and then Gimli. She tried to smother a laugh, but failed. "Oh, don't start until I get a good seat. I want to watch this in its entirety," she said, smirking at them both. Even Aragorn cracked a grin, and helped himself to an ale.

He eyed Legolas over the rim of his tankard and winked. "Best prepare yourself, Your Highness," he said, to Legolas's chagrin.

"Exactly what are you trying to make me do?" the elf asked, turning to Sakhra for some kind of explanation. He found her leaning against the cask, already behind the table, with Eomer on her left.

"There is no  _try_ to it," she said, grinning. "You'll do as Gimli asks. After all, he did win your little competition at Helm's Deep, did he not?"

A lesser man would have blushed. "It was a draw," Legolas said, almost growling.

"You see why we need an unbiased judge?" Gimli retorted, jabbing a thumb at the elf. "This one cheats!"

"I do not-"

"No pauses," Eomer cut in, trying his best not to laugh. He nudged a tankard towards Gimli. "No spills."

With a grin, Gimli took the cup, lifting it to his beard. "And no regurgitation! Last one standing wins!"

_Last one alive, more like_ , Sakhra thought, smirking. As she watched, Gimli tipped his tankard, and began to gulp. Legolas followed, sipping as politely as he could under the circumstances. Only Sakhra saw the scheming glint in his eye, and she had to smother another laugh into her hand. The elf was  _playing_  Gimli, if her instincts were true. And as cup after cup was slammed down on the table, and Gimli began to sway, she knew it to be true. The elf, on the other hand, continued along at an even pace, never stopping, never stalling, and never breaking pace. And always he eyed her over the rim of his cup, watching her smile and laugh with the others, watching her as she should be. For a moment, Sakhra Shastaskar was free of her demons - and even her angels.


	26. I Will Wait

Soon there were ten empty tankards on the table, and ten more quickly followed. The crowd grew with the empties, stopping to watch the battle of elf and dwarf. Gandalf and Aragorn took the opportunity to slip away, to discuss such things as Sakhra did not want to think on tonight. Instead, she watched coins pass between the men, betting on who would keep their feet at the end of it all.

Meanwhile, the women whispered behind their hands. Their eyes glittered in the torchlight, and Sakhra could see their flushed cheeks and wide eyes, always staring at Legolas. She felt a tremor of jealousy, but only a small one. After all, she was a Hasharina, a warrior proven. She had nothing to fear from such giggling maidens. What's more, Sakhra was more accustomed to the courtesans of Harad, and their frightful competition. The Rohirrim ladies looked like virgin priestesses in comparison, with their sloping necklines, long sleeves, and full skirts. Not even the boldest of them, Lady Gwyna of Aldburg, could hold a candle to the shyest maiden of Umbar. Still, the woman tried, and tossed her long golden hair every minute or so. She wore a firestorm of jewels around her throat and waist, and the bright red of her gown was distasteful at best. Sakhra smiled to herself, noting how Legolas plainly ignored Gwyna's efforts, and downed the next cup with striking focus.

Legolas was not so calm beneath his still facade. While he did his best to appear fixated on Gimli's game, he was anything but. The drinking of ale was but a nuisance. The Rohirrim brew tasted like bad water, and affected him even less. His father's stores, famed throughout Middle-Earth, held wines potent enough to sway the likes of Elrond and Thranduil, and Legolas partook in them many times. _Though the memories are hazy_ , he thought with an almost smirk. But he maintained the show, if only to earn himself some moments of relative peace. And to watch, of course. Every chance he could, every time her eyes strayed to the crowd or that insufferable Lady Gwyna, he glanced her way. He barely noticed her gown, not that he was used to it. But her face, her hair, her eyes, each one glowing with a different inner light, they were transfixing. And he was not the only one to notice.

Something growled inside the prince when Eomer shifted, choosing his steps ever so carefully, until he stood a close but still respectable distance from the Hasharina woman. He did not bother to whisper. He was a Marshall of the Mark, and heir to the Kingdom of Rohan. He had no cause to keep secrets, nor did he fear any kind of admonishment. Only the game kept Legolas still, drinking deeply, even though Gimli's eyes had begun to cross.

"First we met as exiles, and now we stand as honored guests," he said, grinning with the open expression brutish men kept so well. Already Sakhra saw through him. A fearsome warrior and skilled commander, but this man was no silver-tongued court schemer, or even seducer. His eyes were enough to tell - she knew the look of lust, and saw none of it in him. It had not even crossed his mind. _Yet_ , she told herself.  _Ale loosens all hearts._ One glance towards another blonde prince gave her pause.  _Almost all._

"Strange fates for strange times, Your Highness," she replied. "And strange allies come with them."

He nodded, grinning. "Allies indeed. I would apologize for my assumptions on our first meeting. They were the work of -."

"-Saruman," she supplied. Her eyes flashed, denoting her conviction. "Your misgivings as well as mine were the work of evil, meant to split this land apart, tree from root, and blood from blood. You were a grieving man, an abandoned nephew, and a warrior cast aside. You were only trying to defend your country, in what way you could. We all understand that."

He grinned, and he raised a cup of ale to her. "Well said, Lady Sakhra." He drank deeply, dark eyes flashing. "And you should know, of course, that your deeds at Helm's Deep will not be forgotten. While the Golden Hall stands, you will always be a friend to Rohan, a hero of renown and song."

_While the Golden Hall stands._  A mighty oath, one Sakhra never expected. If not for her well-honed instincts, Prince Eomer would have seen many powerful emotions cross her face. Instead, she offered only a wide smile and bright eyes. But inside Sakhra, a powerful storm raged, a storm she could not fathom.  _Joy_.

"Thank you," was all she managed to say. The warrior may have been a brute, but he noticed how her hands trembled, rippling the ale in her cup. "I truly thank you."

Eomer inclined his head in reply, allowing her to see past him. She caught the eye of King Theoden, and knew that the pledge was not the doing of the heir, but the king himself. Like the prince, Theoden bowed his head, his visage a grim picture of gratitude.

For a moment, the sight stiffened her back, and Sakhra refused to present a curtsy of her own. A lord's attention was not unfamiliar to her, especially in such surroundings. How many chieftans, how many warlords, had watched her across the tides of a feast, raising their glasses in her direction? Too many to count. Some were fond memories, remembered with a smirk, but most sickened her. Luckily, the sensation passed as soon as it came. Even Sakhra's body knew the memories were long gone, and it bent into a graceful dip to acknowledge the king. Her mind soon followed, pushing away all thoughts of Harad feasts and silk chambers filled with fragrant smoke.

But Legolas noticed the darkness in her gaze, the brief shadow that came with her recollections. It was this strength of hers that impressed him the most, more than her skill with blade or bewitchment. So many times she pulled away from the abyss, often drawing others with her. Frodo, Boromir, himself. She carried such weight, and still took on more, opening her once empty heart to so many others. She thought herself a cold woman, soulless, a weapon made of flesh and bone, but Legolas knew better. Her compassion ran as deep as the sea, and was just as unyielding. There was no end to what she would do for those allowed to glimpse behind her mask.

_Enough of this_ , he thought, suddenly wishing Gimli's infantile game was at an end. The words knifed in his mind, sharper than they should have been. Perhaps the ale was stronger than he thought -  _no, not at all. I am a Prince of Mirkwood, son of the Elvenking. This is but air to me._   _Air._  His lips twitched into a smile, amused at the image of drinking air. Soon enough, Gimli would have to.

The dwarf swayed on the spot, but caught himself on the table, all while still gulping at a tankard. Most of the ale dribbled into his already wet beard, but no one dared call the dwarf a cheat. Though his ax was nowhere to be seen, Gimli was still deadly, drunk or not.

"It's the dwarves that go swimmin'," Gimli growled, pounding a fist, "With little hairy women. Ha!" He finished with a royal burp and a wink in Sakhra's direction. She laughed out loud, nearly upending her own tankard in the process.

"I think it's beginning to affect me," Legolas murmured, flexing a hand for effect. He tried to look perplexed, staring at his fingers as if they surprised him. That got Eomer's attention, at least, and he turned from Sakhra's side, an eyebrow raised.

She was not so intrigued, and instead leaned back against the barrel. Legolas was not a gracious actor, and pitifully oversold the ruse of intoxication. But she did not want to spoil the game, and instead, pressed her sleeve to her mouth, hiding her smile. She held his gaze all the while, letting his face fill her thoughts until there was no more room for far gone memories. The others did not notice, did not _know_  him well enough to notice, but she saw the smile in his eyes plain as day.

Gimli jabbed at Legolas with one gloved fist, missing entirely. The elf put a calm hand to his shoulder, stopping the dwarf from falling flat, though Gimli didn't seem to notice. "What did I say?" he pressed on, slurring horribly. "He can't hold his-" Silence passed over Gimli like a warm blanket, and his eyes crossed, almost in thought.  _Oh_ , said his mind as he toppled backwards, graciously unconscious.  _  
_

A roar of laughter rippled through the audience of the game, mingled with jeers and disgruntled cries. Few bet on the elf in the game of cups, but three men and one small boy greedily collected their winnings. Sakhra recognized the child; Theomund, one of boys she met before Helm's Deep. The sight of him cheered her like no other, and she smiled deeply, feeling content for a long moment.

"Not the first to succumb to the night," Eomer cheered, leaving his place behind the table. He drew a horse blanket from neat stack - the Rohirrim were clearly used to people passing out in their hall - before throwing it across the sleeping Gimli. Two of his men strained to roll the dwarf, barely able to move him beneath the table. "Nor the last," the prince added, cocksure, to resounding agreement.

Lady Gwyna hmm-hmmed louder than the rest, exchanging furtive glances with her lady friends. They smelled blood in the water, or, more accurately, ale. An intoxicated elf would be far easier to seduce than a sober one, and it was plainly now or never for the ones intent on such a game. They descended like a rabble of orcs, with no leader and no motive beyond the kill.

_If only they were orcs_ , Legolas thought.  _Then c_ _utting through them would not be such poor taste._ Despite his upbringing as a prince, a noble, chivalrous elf to the bone, Legolas was curt as he could be and used all his agility to dodge their efforts. By the time he did manage to escape the cloud of perfume and roving hands, Sakhra had gone from the table. But for Legolas, so attuned to her presence, she was easy to find. _  
_

"Not a scratch, Lady Sakhra," Theomand said, looking up at her with a grin. He seemed taller since Helm's Deep, but that was impossible. It was pride that made him stand straight. Now he was a man, as evidenced by the half-healed gash above his eye.  _Perhaps he will have a scar_ , she mused.  _He would love such a badge of honor._

"I can see that," she replied, smiling as her hand brushed his wound. She would not think on the other boys, Frell and Brinden and Hallas, who she had not seen since the battle. She could not do it, not tonight.

"I knew to bet on you," he continued, his gaze shifting to someone standing over her shoulder. "Seemed like easy money."

Sakhra did not have to turn to know who it was. Legolas was not one to leave alone for long, in this or any another kind of battle. "Gimli was right," she said, shifting her attention from Theomand. The little boy was perceptive for his age, and scurried off, leaving them alone in the crowd.

"About what?" he replied, tipping his head. He could not help but laugh in the direction of the dwarf's unconscious form.

She smiled with him and was quietly surprised with herself. She did not expect this conversation to be so easy. It was not the ale, certainly, she'd only had a few tankards, and it was nothing compared to the blinding white liquor or sweet rum of Harad. "You are a cheat, Prince Legolas."

"I am no such thing, Lady Sakhra. If you remember, Gimli challenged me to his drinking game. I simply agreed to his request, foolish as it might have been."

"Only after playing the fool yourself," she said with a wicked grin. In spite of herself, she took a step closer, and he matched her. The feast, so familiar to them both, was making them bold. "If not a cheat, then a liar at the very least."

_Not for much longer,_ Legolas thought as he looked down on her. Her eyes caught the light, mirroring the Morianar, a pair of dark suns glimmering with an enchantment he would never understand.  _After has come this very night. I will tell her my feelings, and end this misery. Certainly she knows already. I must only put it to words, and leave her to decide what to do with them._ "We are both liars, Sakhra," he finally said, his voice so low she almost didn't hear him. But when her eyes widened and her pulse quickened, he knew she did.

She forced herself to drink, if only to fill the maw of sudden silence.  _How stupid of me, to think this would be easy. How completely idiotic._ Two paths lay ahead, both of them plainly marked. One took her away from Legolas, to a place where her heart was unbreakable steel. The other, right to him, and the agony he could bring her. And she knew which would best aid their quest, their friends, and Middle-Earth. It was not the latter.  _Funny,_ she thought.  _I expected elves to be made of more sense. I suppose I must be strong enough for the both of us._ _  
_

"Sakhra," he prodded, reaching out perfect but tentative hand. He brushed at her wrist, silently pleading. "I won't do this here-."

"Or anywhere else," she said quickly, taking even herself by surprise. The flash of pain across his face would have leveled another woman, but she kept her wits. Her heart hammered in her ears, so loud she knew he could hear it. But that did not matter. Her heart did not control her mind or the rest of her body. That was trained and beaten from her long ago. "This will not happen. It cannot."

A century ago, Legolas took an orc arrow in the gut. Letting her walk away was more painful.

* * *

An hour passed without incident, and the hall grew hazy with smoke, laughter, and the vapors of beer and liquor. Sakhra had found herself - rather, Eomer had presented her with - a skin of sweet rum. It was not of Harad, but the Gondorian coast, but it would do for the time being, and she eagerly drank of it. It was frighteningly easy to detach from what had happened, to put on another one of her well-worn masks and wield it like a shield. She drank and sang with the hobbits, danced round with Gandalf, Aragorn, and Eomer, even exchanged whispers with Eowyn. Once or twice, she checked on Gimli, who was beginning to come around again, although he still could not stand. To her relief, Legolas was nowhere to be seen at all. Gwyna and her ducklings fluttered back and forth, searching for the elf prince, but found hide nor hair of him. He was good enough to give Sakhra the space she so obviously wanted, and had excused himself to the terrace. Aragorn noticed, as he did all things, but let him simmer. He was quietly pleased, albeit sorry for his friend. It seemed Sakhra was more like himself than he thought. Like him, she had thrown away love with both hands. Worst of all was Gandalf, who was constantly tutting, and seemed to have given up on enjoying himself.

"Stubborn fools, the lot of you," he muttered so only Aragorn could hear. "Too honorable and wise for your own good."

For once, Aragorn did not agree with the wizard. "Leave her be," he said, knowing what kind of pain she was in. "For tonight, at least. We owe her it."

"We owe her much and more, Aragorn," Gandalf whispered, his eyes on her form as she danced with Eomer. It was a lively reel, and she changed partners many times, each one happier than the last. "Much and more for this and all things."

When Gimil muscled his way to their side, swaying but finally on his feet, they both fell immediately quiet. In his stupor, the dwarf didn't notice, and boomed louder than usual. "Back on my feet in no time, that's the dwarf way. Not like princey pansy, I can see he's gone away. Never can keep up, that one." It was neither an appropriate nor possible time for Gimli to grasp the complex passings of the night, so his companions said nothing at all. Not that Gimli needed anyone else to carry on a conversation. "Ah, look at our girl," he continued, turning his gaze on Sakhra as a father would his daughter. "The elf's not only an infant, but a fool as well, to pass her up now."

"Enough, Gimli," Aragorn growled, putting a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. Even in his incapacitated state, Gimli saw the threat, and briefly nodded his red face.

"Aye," he muttered darkly, before smiling once more and shrugging. "Well, his loss is my gain then."

And then he was moving faster than they thought possible, slipping into the throng of dancers. For a dwarf, he was surprisingly fleet footed, and picked up the steps with impressive ease. In moments, he had worked into Sakhra's circle, and had her by the waist. She laughed and smiled, letting him turn her about the floor, hoping for all the world that the drunk dwarf would not see past her lowered veil. For her sake, he pretended not to.

The steps of the Rohirrim dance were easy to master, a pattern of turns and movements that a Haradrim child could memorize. And Sakhra was a skilled dancer, utilizing her agility and lethal grace to snake across the hall. She made sure to keep herself in check, lest she truly lose herself in a memory and cross a line of propriety, but the music was so invigorating. A pounding drumbeat and harried lutes that moved as quickly as her heartbeat, strumming fast enough to keep her focus on the dance and nothing else. A welcome respite. If only she could block out the lyrics, sung in Rohirrim, but she understood them all the same. They almost made her wince.

_I will wait, I will wait for you._

Pippin followed Gimli, and he made the steps his own, adjusting them to his short stature and natural talent for foot stomping. Merry was not one to be left out, and joined the circle. Sakhra took them both by the hand, as she would children, and let them lead her around the floor. If not for her well-trained tolerance, her vision would be blurry, her movements sluggish. But still, she felt the familiar tremors in her fingers and toes, letting her know that the sweet embrace of her rum was coming.

_I will wait, I will wait for you._

He moved through the crowd swiftly, and the Rohirrim barely noticed him pass them by. They were happily drunk, content to watch the young folk spin their reels, to forget the horrors they had survived, and Legolas Greenleaf, another fair head in a sea of blondes, was not their concern. He didn't see them either, noting only obstacles to navigate through.

A familiar face flashed in the corner of her eye, but Merry spun her away, and she let him. She did not want to see the prince, not during this song, not on this night.

_I will wait, I will wait for you._

Gandalf saw all, as he always did, and his grumbles died in his throat.  _At least there can be some happiness, some light in these shadows._  He was counting on it.

_Raise my hands._

The timing was nothing at all, not for him. He did not even worry about the unfamiliar steps. His fingers twitched at his side, itching to be safe in hers.

_Paint my spirit gold._

The torch light glimmered off a silver tunic, drawing her gaze, but again, she was turned away. And this time, she wished she hadn't. She wished she could turn back around.

_And bow my head._

The elf sidles past Aragorn, who did all he could to stifle a groan.  _So much for strength._ But deep in his heart, he was jealous - and he was happy. If he must be denied, at least they were not.

_Keep my heart slow._

The music swelled, so heavy Sakhra could feel the notes on the air. And then the hand in hers was not Merry's. It was firm and cool, smooth and white as bone, and just as unyielding. Just as unwilling to leave her.

_I will wait, I will wait for you._

It was a sight to be seen, the Hasharina and the Elf Prince dancing a reel of Rohan. The other partners on the floor could not match the brightness of such a sun and moon, and became only stars, distant glimmers to revolve around them. She felt fierce and beautiful as she never had before, she felt needed, wanted, loved. These were unfamiliar but sorely welcome, and she tightened her grip on his hands.

His responded in kind.  _I'm not going anywhere._

They sang the last verse in unison, and in the din of the hall, with everyone else repeating the words, no one noticed that they did as well.

"I will wait, I will wait for you."

It was an agreement, the only one they could make. The only one they could bear. Sakhra wished they could write it in blood. Gods knew it was already tattooed on her heart and in her soul.

He dropped her hands first, stepping back to applaud the band and singers.  _I will wait for you._  It was not the answer he wanted, but it was better than before, better than that damned after. At least now he knew. At least now, they had something to wait for.

She began to smile, but stopped outright. Her lips froze in place and her eyes glassed. Her focus was suddenly elsewhere, and Legolas could almost see the hairs rise on her neck. A shock ran through him, and he knew this had nothing to do with their dance. "What is it?" he said urgently.

It took her a moment, a horrible one. But the scent was unmistakable. She knew it as well as she knew Legolas's face.  _Sandgrass._  Used in the ink of tattoos. It was light, carefully covered by the stink of spilled ale, but she knew it still. And it was not her own, a smell she had long since lost the ability to notice. Her stomach seemed to plummet to her toes, and she thought of her knives, trapped by yards of silk.

"Sakhra?" Legolas would have shaken her if they were not in the middle of the Golden Hall. "Sakhra?"

Her eyes snapped to his, then to Aragorn over his shoulder. The Gondorian tensed at the sight of her fear and all but flew towards them.

Her eyes darted between the elf and man, wondering which of them was the target. Perhaps both. She almost screamed at the thought. She forced herself to speak the words, to make them true, to give her friends whatever protection her warning could bring. It was only a whisper, but they heard it like the screech of a wraith-black raven.

"There is another Hasharin here."


	27. Onsatara

Sakhra could not imagine a more dangerous contract, or a more reckless assassin. To be tasked with killing one of the many warriors beneath the roof of Meduseld - Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Eomer, even King Theoden - was little more than a suicide mission. And to do so now, in the middle of a feast, with so many present...in truth, it might work to the Hasharin's advantage. A drunken man is easier to kill. But under the nose of Gandalf or any of the others? Who could be so foolish? Her mind flew at lightning speed, sifting through memories old and far away. Not Krez, not Jira, not Hatani or Siro or Rezaline. Not even the masters or teachers would dare come so far from the sands and willing enter such a pit of snakes.  _Unless the contract was not taken willingly. Unless this was a command._  But even at the guild, there was no such thing. Blooded Hasharin took the contracts they wanted, and refused the ones they didn't. A forced one would certainly end in death, and a waste of a good assassin. It was simply not the way of things.  _But ways can change. And I have not walked their path in years._

"Look for someone bald or hooded," she whispered, more to herself than the others. A Haradrim would stick out in the sea of Rohirrim, unless he took great care to hide his natural appearance and coloring. Dark hair would be the first thing done away with. "Probably a servant."  _Carrying a dagger beneath his tray, or poison up his sleeve._ "Drink nothing you are offered. Tell Theoden and Eomer the same. They could be targets."

Legolas had already turned his focus elsewhere, scanning the room with precision. He barely heard her words, but internalized them all the same. "Here for Theoden, most likely, or you, Aragorn."

"Or  _you_ ," she hissed, grabbing his wrist so that he looked back down. "Your name has been the Hasharin contracts for decades. Maybe someone was finally stupid enough to try and fulfill it." _Impossible,_ she told herself. No man living could kill an elven warrior. It was beyond their ability, reserved only for the masters of old, the Elf-Killers, called Etazar. No one had earned the name in centuries, no one was even close when she left. And even  _if_  someone had come here with the intent to kill Legolas of Mirkwood, she sorely doubted he would succeed. Even so, she felt a chill of fear.

"Laugh," she said suddenly, and they looked at her like she was mad. " _Laugh_ ," she said again, and forced a brazen smile. "He will be watching," she hissed through her teeth. "He must not know we're on the hunt."

Aragorn was the first to oblige, and Legolas followed. Their grins were hollow, but no outsider could know that. "I must tell Gandalf," he muttered, turning to nod at the wizard. But obviously, Gandalf already knew something was amiss. He leaned heavily on his staff, receding into the mask of an old man, and came towards them.

"Trouble?" he said, quirking an empty smile. One look at Sakhra was all he needed. She was like a cat on edge, her hackles raised and fangs bared, frightened by something she could not see yet.

"A Hasharin. Quietly bar the doors," Sakhra said. "He must not be allowed to escape. We must know his target, and whoever holds his reins."

With a wink, Gandalf did as she asked, and turned over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed, the only indication of his deep focus. Across the hall, unbeknownst even to the guards, the wooden bar lock slowly drew across the door. "Aragorn, be a lad and watch the entrance to the private chambers. I'll take the other wing myself."

She could tell splitting up was not Aragorn's favorite idea, but clearly the best one for the situation. "We'll linger here and watch the king," she said, donning another blazing smile. "Keep whatever weapon you have close and ready."

"Always," the Gondorian replied.

He slipped into the crowd, his shoulders square and tense. One hand twitched by the dagger at his hip, ready to draw the blade. Obviously the ranger was no good at keeping his intentions a secret, despite the grin plastered on his features. Gandalf, on the other hand, made a good show of it. He laughed and wagged a finger at the hobbits, scolding them for something or other, always facing the entrance to the kitchens and servants quarters. That left all the escapes guarded. The Hasharin was closed in.

"My bow is in my chamber," Legolas whispered, sounding almost in pain. If only he had it. Then no matter what, no matter how fast the Hasharin could strike, he would die before harming someone. But like Aragorn and Sakhra, he had only his daggers, and they were concealed beneath his tunic. "Are you armed?"

She shot him a look before turning her gaze back on the crowd. "Is that even a question?" She sounded more confident than she felt.  _Damn Eowyn. Damn this dress. Damn this night._ "You take the left," she said, already drifting from his side.

But he kept close, pretending to hold her arm and exchange pleasantries. Instead, he was almost hissing. "Not a chance."

" _Take the left_ ," she repeated. "He won't strike with any of us so close together. He'll wait until we're divided, and then he'll go for his target. Probably Theoden." She glanced at the hearth fire where the king now stood, silhouetted against the blaze. Gimli stood close by, arguing with an empty chair.  _Useless._  "Legolas, please, take the left."

He recognized her tone, and hated it. Her voice was different, firmer, with more steel, the kind she used when on the shores of the Anduin, when she told him she would leave the Fellowship. Before Helm's Deep, when she refused to wear heavy armor. It meant decision, conviction. It meant there was no argument she would listen to. Her mind was set, and all he could do was obey.

"Very well," he murmured, and his hand slipped down her arm. Their fingers grazed briefly, one quick touch of his thumb running over her palm.  _I will wait_.

They were never more than ten yards apart, but it felt like a canyon. Her eyes swept through the crowd as thoroughly as they could without look conspicuous, and she found herself more social and cheerful than ever. She complimented the women on their gowns or accepted offers of praise from the men who remembered her deeds at Helm's Deep. All of it came with a deep underpinning of dread. The buzz of liquor was all but forgotten. Her senses were electrified, attuned to all things. A dropped cup, a crying baby, a drunk man stumbling to his knees. All of them were fine distractions, the kind she would have used if she were the assassin here, the wolf waiting to strike. But this wolf was outnumbered. This wolf was a fool. Who else would attempt to kill a wizard, an elf, or one of three deadly warriors?

There it was again. Sandgrass. A distinct smell. Like smoke and salt and heat, pure heat. Long ago, Boromir said he could smell it on her. Now it was another Haradrim in the midst of the Fellowship, and this one was not their ally.

Metal hissed behind her. Steel on steel, slow and deliberate. Too close to be anyone else.

Sakhra dropped to her knees, rolling forward, forgetting all rules of propriety or the silk gown she wore. It was a worthy instinct - a sword swept through the air where her neck once was, singing for her blood. Her body reacted before her mind could, and her mouth moved of her own accord. "Legolas!" she screamed, though her eyes were on the Hasharin assassin standing above her.

He was what she expected. Bald, his skin paled by light powder, in heavy robes to conceal a broad, well-muscled man. She didn't doubt his cloak hid another sword, and his tunic too many knives to count. She would not give him time to use them, and pulled one dagger from her sleeve, the other from her boot. Silk tore, and she realized she could hear it. The surrounding crowd was silent in this moment, too shocked to speak. And then there was panic and pandemonium. The frozen moment shattered with a woman's scream, followed by shouting chaos.

The Hasharin surged at her, raining blow after blow, not allowing her the time or opportunity to stand. She blocked with her daggers, but every strike was like a hammer fall.  _A brawler_ , she thought, noting his stance and style. This man used pure power to subdue his enemies and fulfill his contracts. His sword fell again, clanging against her daggers, and the blow sent shudders up her arm. This time, he pushed, trying to bring his full weight down on her, trying to slit her throat. It was all the time she needed to get her feet under her, into position, using her powerful leg muscles to force him back. She stood, throwing off his weight, but he did not stumble. Hasharin did not stumble.

A Rohirrim, half-drunk, was the first in the crowd to lunge forward. He had no weapon in hand, but a clay serving platter instead. He meant to throw it, but a well aimed kick from the assassin sent him sprawling backwards, and the platter broke over his own head. Other attempts met the same swift end, and he was soon on Sakhra again, catching her around the middle, throwing them both to floor.

From the other side of the hearth fire, Legolas watched in terror, trying to shove his way through the chaotic crowd of revelers. The push and pull of them made it almost useless, and he found himself shoving men and women aside, not caring for either. He could only think of Sakhra, of the assassin on top of her. His keen hearing did not miss the sound of a fist connecting with her cheek, drawing blood.

Stars swam before her eyes, almost blinding in their dance, but she kept her head. This was one man only. In the last months, she had faced greater terrors than this.  _Then why am I afraid?_ She rolled, dodging his next blow, sweeping out with a dagger to keep him back.  _Because he is Hasharin, and a dangerous one at that. No green boy or girl, but a man grown in the guild, who killed many just like me._

Another man plowed into the Hasharin, meaning to bowl him over, but found himself flying instead. Judging by the dark hair, it was none other than Aragorn. He narrowly missed the fire, crashing into a serving table instead. But the distraction was enough. She was already on her feet, shaking off the dizziness, focusing only on the target in front of her. She didn't even notice the elf leaping clean over a low section of the hearth fire, his golden hair flashing red for the moment. She only knew she was faster than the assassin, quicker than his broad and bone-cleaving strikes. He was stronger, but wind will always erode the mountain if given the chance.

She spun around him, ducking and dancing beneath his flailing blows. Her dress spun like a wheel of gold, and she drew first blood at the back of the leg, slicing clean across the muscle so that he crashed to one knee. The next came across the shoulder blades, so that his swinging arms fell limp. And the third did not draw only blood, but sinew and bone. She stabbed her Hasharin dagger clean through his elbow joint and into carved grooves of the flagstones of Meduseld, pinning him down. He howled in their language, cursing her, the gods, and his own pain.

With a sigh, she stood back, letting him writhe. She smoothed back her ruined hair, trying her best not to smile. It would be unseemly. "Leave him," she said calmly, holding out a hand to keep Aragorn and Legolas at bay. Both did as she asked, albeit with trepidation. They looked from her to the man on the floor, now attempting to hiss his way through the feel of a nearly severed arm. Blood pooled around his leg, black in the hearth light.

And the crowd looked on, shocked and awed. Most watched the pinned assassin, still afraid he could rise at any moment. But a few, the royal house of Rohan included, watched the Hasharina as she circled her fallen prey. Legolas did the same, and was confused. Her dress was ripped, her braided hair undone, and there was blood seeping through her silks, but that did not trouble him so much as her eyes, or the stone at her neck. Like the Hasharin's blood, the diamond seemed to burn black. As if the light had left it - and her - entirely.

She stopped at the Hasharin's shoulder, then crouched. One hand still held a dagger, while the free one reached out to touch the blade impaling his arm. He winced, but did not whimper.

" _Who have you come here to kill?_ " she asked in Haradaic, expecting no answer. She was not mistaken. Instead, he spit in her direction.

Gandalf shouldered his way through the dispersing crowd, careful to push the hobbits back from the bloody scene. "Sakhra, not here-."

But her world had narrowed to the man and the blade in his arm. Quietly, she twisted the dagger, and he  _howled._

" _Who paid you to come here_?" Again, in Haradaic. Once, Legolas found the language exotic, lovely even, but tonight, it sounded worse than the Black Speech of Mordor.

"Sakhra-." This time Aragorn tried to stop her, stepping forward to take her shoulder.

She all but threw him off, livid with anger. "He'll bleed out if we move him," she snarled, nodding to his leg. "And we need to know where he came from, and for who!"

"Let her do what must be done."

Of all the people to come to her defense, Sakhra did not expect it to be Theoden. And in the Golden Hall, none would cross the will of the King of Rohan. From his place at the edge of the crowd, flanked by Eomer and his many bodyguards, the king nodded his head.  _Continue_ , the gesture said.

She needed no more prodding than that. The second dagger came loose, spearing the assassin's hand. Those who remained in the hall winced, and a few gasped aloud. The Hasharin made no such sound, and his eyes began to glass over. She was losing him. Which meant the danger had not passed. It would come again, and there would be no knowing when or for who. This she could not allow. This could not happen.

" _Who sent you? Who paid you? Who are you here kill?_ " she asked again, each question more hissing and ragged than the last. With shaking fingers, she pulled the second dagger from his hand, putting it to his eye. At this, the Hasharin flinched, trying to pull away. The strain nearly separated the already mangled joint of his elbow, and he screamed through gritted teeth.

" _Would you enter the next life blind?_ " she sneered, leaning over him. " _A beggar lower than dogs?_ "

His breath heaved in and out, and his heart thrummed beneath her hand. Sakhra could not remember scrambling on top of him, but she sat there now, her knees on either side of his chest, her arm poised to strike again. "Well?" she snapped, bringing the blade point within a breath of his shivering eye.

" _Who did you come to kill?!_ "

" _ONSATARA_ ," ripped from him, a bird escaping its cage. And Sakhra felt true fear, true horror. She nearly dropped her dagger in surprise. "THE BETRAYER OF THE BLOOD. SAKHRA SHASTASKAR, I COME FOR YOU," he roared in the common tongue, so all could hear. It was his final wound to her, and the deepest any man could make. "I will not be the last," he continued, gasping now. There was blood in his mouth, staining his teeth, as if he was feasting on her heart. Sakhra thought it might be so.

Her body shook, and the dagger fell from her hand, landing harmlessly to the side. "Who sent you?" she whispered, but the hall was silent as a grave.

Below her, the Hasharin laughed, and blood flecked through the air. A last act of defiance. He would not say.

On quivering limbs, she rose, still locked on his wretched, paling face. She spoke the usual words, almost in mocking. "How do you wish to die, Hasharin?" she hissed.

Weakly, he laughed again and spit blood upon her gown. "Whatever death you have the stomach left to give, Betrayer."

If Gandalf had not pulled her back, looping one white arm across her chest, what an end she would have given him. But he pushed her back, away from the precipice he knew she stood upon. "No, my girl, no," he whispered, dragging her back and away from the stilling body of a Hasharin assassin. She caught glimpses of her friends as they walked, faces painted gold by torchlight. Aragorn had turned grim, and Gimli sober. The hobbits looked vaguely sick. And Legolas followed doggedly, his lips pursed into a thin line. She saw pity in them all, and fear. It was maddening. And the Hasharin was still laughing, an echo in her blood and bones, when the cool night air of the terrace wrapped around her.

"Gandalf," she warned, a wretched sound. "Gandalf, I must-."

"He is already dying, soon dead, and by your hand," the wizard said evenly, still not letting go. "What more is there for you to do?"

Legolas joined them on the terrace, frightened by both the assassin's confession and Sakhra's violence. He had never seen her like this, not in Moria, not even in Helm's Deep. So soulless. So  _Hasharin._ He stepped onto the terrace as Sakhra spun away from Gandalf, snarling, her teeth white and flashing into the blue night.

"I would cut his throat and pull his tongue through, that's what I would do. I am the Shastaskar, how  _dare_ he-," she railed, pacing back and forth like a mad, caged beast. And Legolas realized, this is who she was before. This is what she came from, what she fought so hard to keep at bay. If the sight of him calmed her, she gave no indication, and continued to stalk back and forth across the flagstones. "A few more moments and I'd have his employer. I had have his whole lineage out of him-," and she devolved into Haradaic, none of it gentle.

"And that would be worth the cost?" Gandalf murmured, his voice so gentle it was nearly lost to the shadows.

She laughed darkly. "To know who sent him? Of course. An easy bargain, for a few moments of his pain."

"The cost to  _you_ ," the wizard said. "To Sakhra  _Terazon_."

Her new name, given by Frodo Baggins, was enough to still her frantic pacing. She stopped short at the edge of the terrace, staring out at the valley so she would not have to look back.  _Sakhra Terazon. Not Shastaskar. Not Onsatara. Not any other name I have lost or earned._ Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, seeming to slam against the walls of her rib cage.  _Terazon would not be so brutal, so Hasharin. But she is not weak either. She would not turn her back on a fight._

"I do not regret my actions, Gandalf, and I will not, no matter how you twist what has passed." She turned back around, arms crossed. There was blood on her hands, still warm from the assassin's veins. "Go then, if you think me wrong in this."  _  
_

To that, Gandalf had no reply. He leaned heavily on his staff, feeling his age for a brief, trembling moment. "Very well. I suppose you will want to examine the body?"

"You think it worth  _the cost_? Or am I too fragile even to read tattoos?" she spat back, harsher than Legolas had ever heard her with the wizard. To his surprise, Gandalf flinched, but did not respond in kind. Another fight was the last thing she needed, especially now, with the fire still burning in her blood. "Indeed, I will."

To that, Gandalf could only nod and turn away. Legolas glimpsed true sadness and frustration flit across his features, and felt the same. Gandalf knew Sakhra better than all others, and if he despaired of her... _no. I know her well enough. I know what she is capable of doing - and not doing._

"Are you also here to lecture me?" she snapped, drawing his attention away from the retreating wizard. The elf was almost surprised and shook his head, feeling useless in the face of her anger.

"Not at all."  _Don't lie._ "But your methods-."

She laughed loudly, dryly, killing his words at the root. "I would not expect a Prince of the Woodland Realm to understand. Nor a white wizard or Isildur's Heir." Her laughter spread to a grin, a pointed, twisted thing without any joy behind it. "You are too  _noble_ for something so base as torture. You like to keep your hands clean, even if it means failure, or danger to the people around you. Good that I am here to maintain your pristine honor, to do the dirty work no one else is willing to do."

"Sakhra, don't be cruel-."

Her eyes widened, the irises black and burning as the stone around her neck. "Cruel? You think that cruel?" She gestured back to the hall, forgetting herself as her voice rose. "Would that the rest of you were an inch as  _cruel_ as I am. Then someone might have stopped Theoden from leading us into the Deep - or kept the hobbits from running off in Amon Hen - or Boromir from dying - or Gollum from ever escaping  _your prisons._ "

The last jab stung, biting deep as a blade, and Legolas scowled. Indeed, Gollum had escaped from his father's care, and been captured by Mordor soon after. Captured and tortured, to give up the One Ring.  _Things we could not bring ourselves to do_. Sakhra scoffed aloud, reading his thoughts as plainly as if they were written in the night air.

"Would that I was in Mirkwood with you then, to do what you could not and draw a confession from him. To cut the creature's throat and stop all this before it even started."

"Because one more death on your conscious is nothing," he murmured. It was both a whisper and a realization. An understanding of Sakhra the Hasharina. She was a woman of masks, of too many faces to count. But which was the true one? The Hasharina? Shastaskar? Terazon the Guardian? Or the little slave girl doomed to the desert, still bound in a cold, dark tent? Once, he thought he knew. But how easily she fell back, donning the visage of the woman she insisted was no more. It worried him more than anything, even the corpse of an assassin sent to kill her.

A reply stuck in her throat. She could not help but remember the first time she saw Legolas Greenleaf, sitting at the Council of Elrond. He noted her ring, her manner, and made his judgements quickly. He argued against her coming, believing her to be the worst of her past. His eyes were cold then, uninterested in the woman of Harad. Annoyed by her presence, and tensely watching her as he would a scorpion. She saw a flicker of that now, in eyes that used to be gentle. Eyes she saw in her dreams, and felt like feathers against her skin.

"Boromir would understand," she finally whispered, unable to find anything else to say. Like with Gandalf, she turned her back to him. "He knew the price of victory. He knew what mortals must do, what we must become, to protect the things we love."

On another night, his heart would've leapt at such words, but it was already weighted with anger and despair.  _I care not for what you do, Sakhra, only what it does to_ you.  _What pain it puts you through, what it makes you become._ He could not give the words life, no matter how hard he tried. And even though Boromir was dead, far removed from this place and her heart, he could not help but feel a dark twinge of jealousy.  _Boromir was the weakest of us, ruled by temptation. An imperfect soul._ His teeth grated and his fist clenched.  _As all mortals are._

"I'll be along in a moment, Legolas," she said, putting an end to it. Her shoulders squared to the valley beyond, her eyes searching the stars. She looked for a familiar silhouette, of broad shoulders and a circular shield. She found none, and did not hear the elf as he walked away, leaving her alone.

* * *

This was not the first feast of Meduseld to end in blood, or even death. Drunken men were quick to draw knives. But this was different, of course. A man came there with intention to kill, and Sakhra killed him. Sakhra tortured him. In the gown of a princess, wearing the gem of an elf queen, she became what the worst of them thought she could be. A violent, wild savage, better suited to blood than silks. No one would say so, but most fell asleep remembering her growls of Haradaic, and the way she twisted a dagger through the sinews of a man's elbow.

Sakhra was glad for the empty halls, and made her way past the kitchens. A storeroom, now empty after the feast, held the body of her would-be assassin, and she was eager to know what his tattoos could tell her. Gandalf was already there, waiting, as well as Aragorn, Theoden, Legolas, and Eomer. She expected Gimli was still too drunk to stand still, and had taken the hobbits away.  _All the better_ , she thought. She could not bear the queasy looks of the hobbits, or Gimli's barely veiled disappointment in her.

They stood around a cleared table, staring at the Hasharin's corpse. No one had bothered to close his eyes, just as Sakhra had not bothered to change her clothes.  _Just as well. At least I look the monster they all think me to be._

Legolas held out a scrap to her, a clean rag, but she plainly ignored it. This was business, her business, and she would do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. Worrying about a few flecks of blood was not an option.

"Do you know him?" Theoden spoke first, ever the king in his hall. To his credit, there was no fear in his words. Only determination. Sakhra felt a brief swell of respect for him, and remembered his oath to keep her as a friend of Rohan. She wondered if it still stood.

Though she already knew the answer, she glanced at his face again. She tried to imagine him with gleaming dark hair, braided down his neck, or an oiled beard. Neither did much good. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He's at least ten years younger than I. If I knew him at the guild, he would've been only a child."

_Ten years._  The mention of age sent confusion through the men, even the ones who knew she claimed to be thirty-six. The Hasharin on the table was clearly in his twenties, and looked to be her age, if not older. If Gandalf knew the answer to this riddle, he gave no indication, and quietly began to smoke his pipe.

"I'll start with his name rune," she murmured, for their benefit. Why she did so, she could not say. She felt as if she was giving a presentation, not examining a corpse.

With quick hands and an even quicker knife, she cut the Hasharin's shirt in two, revealing a torso muscled to perfection, covered in swirling sandgrass ink. The markings were peculiar to all, a puzzle to most, but Sakhra read them easily. She shifted the body, turning him on his left side with Eomer's help. His right faced upwards, revealing the tattoo marching down his rib cage. It was longer than most, as long as hers. But unlike Sakhra Shastaskar, this man had no runes removed. Every name he earned, and kept.

As she read, her fingers trailing each rune, Legolas could not help but wonder of what her own name looked like. If he would ever see it. But those were thoughts for a very, very different time.

" _Tarid Madez, sazgirak Hital Hitan, zi Harsatar Khanakars._ " Her fingers stopped on the corresponding ruin. "His name is Tarid, son of Madez, born slave of Hital Hitan, child of Harad-Near-Khan."  _  
_

_Another slave child, taken to the guild. Never given a choice or a true home. Trading one set of chains for another._ Her face showed no indication, but Sakhra felt a shift in her anger, and could not find it in herself to hate her would-be assassin quite so much. "The rest are titles, honors and such. Bone-Cleaver, Mumakil-Breaker, Blood Son of Umbar. That means he not only served the guild, but in the armies of Harad as well. A Mumakil lord, most recently. But-." Her brow furrowed, her eyes resting on the last ruin. It looked new, maybe a month old.

"But?" Aragorn prodded, stepping to her side.

"Harad is preparing to back Sauron, we know this," she said, looking up at him. "Their armies are massing in the South, to march on Gondor and Rohan after. Mumakil lords are of great value - rare as generals, and more skilled. Why send one here? Why waste such a man on-"  _me,_ "-on a contract?"

Even Gandalf could not say. But like Sakhra, he fixed on the last rune, trying to puzzle its meaning. It was vaguely familiar, but he could not decipher it. "It's old," she explained, noting his rare confusion. "Old and modified. But this, this rune was once used for the kings of old, the high chiefs who sat the Bone Seat of Umbar, who made themselves crowns and claimed lordship over all of Harad. There has not been a Haradrim king in an Age." Her eyes trailed to Aragorn, and he shifted under her implication.  _There has not been a Gondorian king for an Age either._  "As best I can tell, it says  _Siradanazon._ The King's Hand, Sword, and Shield."

The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding as smoke. While the others stared at the puzzling rune, he kept his eyes on Sakhra, and watched the well-hidden storm flicker in her eyes. There was something she was not saying, something of terrible consequence. "There is a king in Harad, then," the elf said, folding his arms to hide the trembling in his fingers. "And he wants you dead."

For the first time since she danced with the Hasharin, cutting his flesh, she was darkly aware of the blood on her hands.

"Apparently so," she murmured. And her own fingers shook.


End file.
